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A WOMAN-HATER 


QV Noud. 


By CHARLES READE, 

II 

AUTHOR OF 


“ HARD CASH,” “NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND” “FOUL PLAY, 5 
“PUT YOURSELF IN HIS PLACE,” “GRIFFITH GAUNT,” 

“A SIMPLETON,” “WHITE LIES,” &c., &c. 


HOUSEHOLD EDITION. 




NEW YORK AND LONDON: 

HARPER & EROT PIERS, PUBLISHERS 

1900 



£3 









A WOMAN-HATER. 


CHAPTER I. 

“ FI1HE Golden Star,” Homburg, was 
J. a humble hotel, not used by gay 
gamblers, but by modest travelers. 

At two o’clock, one fine day in 
June, there were two strangers in the 
salle a manger , seated at small tables 
a long way apart, and wholly absorbed 
in their own business. 

One was a lady about twenty-four 
years old, who, in the present repose 
of her features, looked comely, sedate, 
and womanly, but not the remarkable 
person she really was. Her forehead 
high and white, but a little broader 
than sculptors aifect ; her long hair, 
coiled tight, in a great many smooth 
snakes, upon her snowy nape, was al- 
most flaxen, yet her eyebrows and long 
lashes not pale but a reddish brown ; 
her gray eyes large and profound ; 
her mouth rather large, beautifully 
shaped, amiable, and expressive, but 
full of resolution ; her chin a little 
broad; her neck and hands admirably 
white and polished. She was an An- 
glo-Dane — her father English. 

If you ask me what she was doing, 
why — hunting ; and had been, for some 
days, in all the inns of Homburg. 
She had the visitors’ book, and was 
going through the names of the whole 
year, and studying each to see wheth- 
er it looked real or assumed. Inter- 
spersed were flippant comments, and 
verses adapted to draw a smile of 
amusement or contempt ; but this 
hunter passed them all over as nulli- 


ties : the steady pose of her head, the 
glint of her deep eye, and the set of 
her fine lips showed a soul not to be 
diverted from its object. 

The traveler at her back had a map 
of the district and blank telegrams, 
one of which he filled in every now 
and then, and scribbled a hasty letter 
to the same address. He was a sharp- 
faced midde-aged man of business; 
Joseph Ashmead, operatic and theat- 
rical agent — at his wits’ end ; a female 
singer at the Homburg Opera had fall- 
en really ill ; he was commissioned to 
replace her, and had only thirty hours 
to do it in. So he was hunting a sing- 
er. What the lady was hunting can 
never be known, unless she should 
choose to reveal it. 

Karl, the waiter, felt bound to rouse 
these abstracted guests, and stimulate 
their appetites. He affected, there- 
fore, to look on them as people who 
had not yet breakfasted, and tripped 
up to Mr. Ashmead with a bill of fare, 
rather scanty. 

The busiest Englishman can eat, 
and Ashmead had no objection to 
snatch a mouthful ; he gave his order 
in German with an English accent. 
But the lady, when appealed to, said 
softly, in pure German, “I will wait 
for the table-d' hote ” 

“ The table-d' hote ! It wants four 
hours to that.” 

The lady looked Karl full in the 
face, and said, slowly, and very dis- 
tinctly, “ Then, I — will — wait — four — 
hours. ” 


6 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


These simple words, articulated firm- 
ly, and in a contralto voice of singular 
volume and sweetness, sent Karl skip- 
ping ; but their effect on Mr. Ashmead 
was more remarkable : he started up 
from his chair with an exclamation, 
and bent his eyes eagerly on the me- 
lodious speaker. He could only see 
her back hair and her figure ; but, ap- 
parently, this quick-eared gentleman 
had also quick eyes, for he said aloud, 
in English, “Her hair, too — it must 
be;” and he came hurriedly toward 
her. She caught a word or two, and 
turned and saw him. “Ah!” said 
she, and rose ; but the points of her fin- 
gers still rested on the book. 

“ It is !” cried Ashmead. “ It is !” 

“ Yes, Mr. Ashmead,” said the lady, 
coloring a little, but in pure English, 
and with a composure not easily dis- 
turbed ; “ it is Ina Klosking.” 

“ What a pleasure,” cried Ashmead ; 
“ and what a surprise ! Ah, madam, 
I never hoped to see you again. 
When I heard you had left the Mu- 
nich Opera so sudden, I said, ‘ There 
goes one more bright star quenched for- 
ever. ’ And you to desert us — you, the 
risingest singer in Germany !” 

“ Mr. Ashmead!” 

“ You can’t deny it. You know 
you were.” 

The lady, thus made her own judge, 
seemed to reflect a moment, and said, 
“ I was a well-grounded musician, 
thanks to my parents ; I was a very 
hard-working singer; and I had the 
advantage of being supported, in my 
early career, by a gentleman of judg- 
ment and spirit, who was a manager 
at first, and brought me forward, aft- 
erward a popular agent, and talked 
managers into a good opinion of me.” 

“Ah, madam,” said Ashmead, ten- 
derly, “it is a great pleasure to hear 
this from you, and spoken with that 
mellow voice which would charm a 
rattlesnake ; but what would my zeal 
and devotion have availed if you had 
not been a born singer ?” 

“Why — yes,” said Ina, thought- 
fully; “I was a singer.” But she I 


seemed to say this not as a thing to be 
proud of, but only because it happened 
to be true ; and, indeed, it was a pe- 
culiarity of this woman that she ap- 
peared nearly always to think — if but 
for half a moment — before she spoke, 
and to say things, whether about her- 
self or others, only because they were 
the truth. The reader who shall con- 
descend to bear this in mind will pos- 
sess some little clue to the color and ef- 
fect of her words as spoken. Often, 
where they seem simple and common- 
place — on paper, they were weighty by 
their extraordinary air of truthfulness, 
as well as by the deep music of her 
mellow, bell-like voice. 

“Oh, you do admit that,” said Mr. 
Ashmead, with a chuckle; “then why 
jump off the ladder so near the top? 
Oh, of course I know— the old story — 
but you might give twenty-two hours 
to love, and still spare a couple to mu- 
sic.” 

“ That seems a reasonable division,” 
said Ina, naively. “ But ” (apologet- 
ically) “ he was jealous.” 

“Jealous! — more shame for him. 
I’m sure no lady in public life was 
ever more discreet.” 

“No, no; he was only jealous of 
the public.” 

“And what had the poor public 
done?” 

“ Absorbed me,” he said. 

“Why, he could take you to the 
opera, and take you home from the 
opera, and, during the opera, he could 
make one of the public, and applaud 
you as loud as the best.” 

“Yes, but rehearsals! — and — em- 
bracing the tenor.” 

“ Well, but only on the stage ?” 

“Oh, Mr. Ashmead, where else does 
one embrace the tenor ?” 

“And was that a grievance ? Why, 
I’d embrace fifty tenors — if I was paid 
proportionable.” 

“ Yes ; but he said I embraced one 
poor stick, with a fervor— an aban- 
don— Well, I dare say I did; for, if 
they had put a gate-post in the middle 
of the stage, and it was in my part to 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


embrace the thing, I should have done 
it honestly, for love of my art, and not 
of a post. The next time I had to 
embrace the poor stick, it was all I 
could do not to pinch him savagely.” 

“And turn him to a counter-tenor 
— make him squeak.” 

Ina Klosking smiled for the first 
time. Ashmead, too, chuckled at his 
own wit, but turned suddenly grave the 
next moment, and moralized. He 
pronounced it desirable, for the inter- 
ests of mankind, that a great and ris- 
ing singer should not love out of the 
business ; outsiders were wrong-head- 
ed and absurd, and did not understand 
the true artist. However, having dis- 
coursed for some time in this strain, 
he began to fear it might be unpala- 
table to her; so he stopped abruptly, 
and said, “But there — what is done 
is done. We must make the best of 
it ; and you mustn’t think I meant to 
run him down. He loves you, in his 
way. He must be a noble fellow, or 
he never could have won such a heart 
as yours. He won’t be jealous of an 
old fellow like me, though I love you, 
too, in my humdrum way, and always 
did. You must do me the honor to 
present me to him at once.” 

Ina stared at him, but said noth- 
ing. 

“Oh,” continued Ashmead, “I 
shall be busy till evening; but I will 
ask him and you to dine with me at 
the Kursaal, and then adjourn to the 
Royal Box. You are a queen of 
song, and that is where you and he 
shall sit, and nowhere else.” 

Ina Klosking was changing color all 
this time, and cast a grateful but trou- 
bled look on him. “My kind, old 
faithful friend!” said she, then shook 
her head. “No, we are not to dine 
with you ; nor sit together at the ope- 
ra, in Homburg.” 

Ashmead looked a little chagrined. 
“So be it,” he said, dryly. “ But at 
least introduce me to "him. I’ll try 
and overcome his prejudices.” 

“ It is not even in my power to do 
that.” 


7 

“Oh, I see. I’m not good enough 
for him,” said Ashmead, bitterly. 

“You do yourself injustice, and him 
too,” said Ina, courteously. 

“Well, then?” 

“ My friend,” said she, deprecating- 
ly, “ he is not here.” 

“Not here? That is odd. Well, 
then, you will be dull till he comes 
back. Come without him; at all 
events, to the opera.” 

She turned her tortured eyes away. 
“ I have not the heart.” 

This made Ashmead look at her 
more attentively. “Why, what is the 
matter?” said he. “ You are in trou- 
ble. I declare you are trembling, and 
your eyes are filling. My poor lady — 
in Heaven’s name, what is the matter ?” 

“Hush! ’’said Ina; “not so loud.” 
Then she looked him in the face a lit- 
tle while, blushed, hesitated, faltered, 
and at last laid one white hand upon 
her bosom, that was beginning to 
heave, and said, with patient dignity, 
“My old friend — I — am — deserted.” 

Ashmead looked at her with amaze- 
ment and incredulity. “Deserted!” 
said he, faintly. “You — deserted ! ! !” 

“Yes,” said she, “deserted; but 
perhaps not forever.” Her noble eyes 
filled to the brim, and two tears stood 
ready to run over. 

“ Why, the man must be an idiot!” 
shouted Ashmead. 

“ Hush ! not so loud. That waiter 
is listening : let me come to your ta- 
ble.” 

She came and sat down at his table, 
and he sat opposite her. They looked 
at each other. He waited for her to 
speak. With all her fortitude, her 
voice faltered, under the eye of sym- 
pathy. 

“ You are my old friend,” she said. 
“I’ll try and tell you all.” But she 
could not all in a moment, and the 
two tears trickled over and ran down 
her cheeks ; Ashmead saw them, and 
burst out, “The villain! — the villain!” 

“No, no,” said she, “do not call 
him that. I could not bear it. Be- 


1 * 


8 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


lieve me, he is no villain.” Then she 
dried her eyes, and said, resolutely, 
“ If I am to tell you, you must not ap- 
ply harsh words to him. They would 
close my mouth at once, and close my 
heart.” 

“I won’t say a word,” said Ash- 
mead, submissively ; “ so tell me all.” 

Ina reflected a moment, and then 
told her tale. Dealing now with long- 
er sentences, she betrayed her foreign 
half. 

“Being alone so long,” said she, 
“has made me reflect more than in 
all my life before, and I now under- 
stand'many things that, at the time, I 
could not. He to whom I have given 
my love, and resigned the art in which 
I was advancing — with your assistance 
— is, by nature, impetuous and incon- 
stant. He was born so, and I the op- 
posite. His love for me was too vio- 
lent to last forever in any man, and it 
soon cooled in him, because he is in- 
constant by nature. He was jealous 
of the public: he must have all my 
heart, and all my time, and so he wore 
his own passion out. Then his great 
restlessness, having now no chain, be- 
came too strong for our happiness. 
He pined for change, as some wander- 
ers pine for a fixed home. Is it not 
strange ? I, a child of the theatre, am 
at heart domestic. He, a gentleman 
and a scholar, born, bred, and fitted to 
adorn the best society, is by nature a 
Bohemian.” 

“ One word : is there another wom- 
an ?” 

“No, not that I know of; Heav- 
en forbid!” said Ina. “But there 
is something very dreadful : there is 
gambling. He has a passion for it, 
and I fear I wearied him by my re- 
monstrances. He dragged me about 
from one gambling-place to another, 
and I saw that if I resisted he would 
go without me. He lost a fortune 
while we were together, and I do real- 
ly believe he is ruined, poor dear.” 

Ashmead suppressed all signs of ill- 
temper, and asked, grimly, “Did he 
quarrel with you, then ?” 


“Oh no; he never said an unkind 
word to me ; and I was not always so 
forbearing, for I passed months of tor- 
ment. I saw that affection, which was 
my all, gliding gradually away from 
me ; and the tortured will cry out. I 
am not an ungoverned woman, but 
sometimes the agony was intolerable, 
and I complained. Well, that agony, 
I long for it back ; for now I am des- 
olate.” 

“Poor soul! How could a man 
have the heart to leave you ? how 
could he have the face ?” 

“Oh, he did not do it shamelessly. 
He left me for a week, to visit friends 
in England. But he wrote to me from 
London. He had left me at Berlin. 
He said that he did not like to tell me 
before parting, but I must not expect 
to see him for six weeks ; and he de- 
sired me to go to my mother in Den- 
mark. He would send his next letter 
to me there. Ah ! he knew I should 
need my mother when his second letter 
came. He had planned it all, that the 
blow might not kill me. He wrote to 
tell me he was a ruined man, and he 
was too proud to let me support him : 
he begged my pardon for his love, for 
his desertion, for ever having crossed 
my brilliant path like a dark cloud. 
He praised me, he thanked me, he 
blessed me ; but he left me : it was a 
beautiful letter, but it was the death- 
warrant of my heart. I was aban- 
doned.” 

Ashmead started up and walked 
very briskly, with a great appearance 
of business requiring vast dispatch, to 
the other end of the salle ; and there, 
being out of Ina’s hearing, he spoke 
his mind to a candlestick with three 
branches. “D — n him ! Heartless, 
sentimental scoundrel! D — n him! 
D— n him!” 

Having relieved his mind with this 
pious ejaculation, he returned to Ina at 
a reasonable pace and much relieved, 
and was now enabled to say, cheer- 
fully, “Let us take a business view 
of it. He is gone — gone of his own 
accord. Give him your blessing — • 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


9 


I have given him mine — and forget 
him.” 

“ Forget him ! Never while I live. 
Is that your advice ? Oh, Mr. Ash- 
mead ! And the moment I saw your 
friendly face, I said to myself, ‘ I am 
no longer alone : here is one that will 
help me.”’ 

“And so I will, you may be sure of 
that, ’’said Ashmead, eagerly. “What 
is the business?” 

‘ ‘ The business is to find him. That 
is the first thing. ” 

“But he is in England.” 

“Oh no; that was eight months 
ago. He could not stay eight months 
in any country ; besides, there are no 
gambling-houses there.” 

“And have you been eight months 
searching Europe for this madman ?” 

* ‘ No. At first pride, and anger were 
strong, and I said, ‘ Here I stay till he 
comes back to me and to his senses.’ ” 

“Brava!” 

“Yes; but month after month went 
by, carrying away my pride and my 
anger, and leaving my affection undi- 
rninished. At last I could bear it no 
longer; so, as he would not come to 
his senses — ” 

“You took leave of yours, and came 
out on a wild-goose chase, ” said Ash- 
mead, but too regretfully to affront her. 

“ It was,” said Ina; “I feelit. But 
it is not one now , because I have you 
to assist me with your experience and 
ability. You will find him for me, 
somehow or other. I know you will.” 

Let a woman have ever so little guile, 
she must have tact, if she is a true wom- 
an. Now, tact, if its etymology is to 
be trusted, implies a fine sense and 
power of touch ; so, in virtue of her 
sex, she pats a horse before she rides 
him, and a man before she drives him. 
There, ladies, there is an indictment 
in two counts ; traverse either of them 
if you can. 

Joseph Ashmead, thus delicately 
but effectually manipulated, swelled 
with gratified vanity, and said, “You 
are quite right ; you can’t do this sort 
of thing yourself ; you want an agent.” 


“ Of course I do.” 

“ Well, you have got one. Now let 
me see — fifty to one he is not at Ilom- 
burg at all. If he is, he most likely 
stays at Frankfort. He is a swell, is 
he not ?” 

“Swell !” said the Anglo-Dane, puz- 
zled. “Not that I am aware of.” 
She was strictly on her guard against 
vituperation of her beloved scamp. 

“Pooh, pooh !” said Ashmead ; “ of 
course he is, and not the sort to lodge 
in Homburg.” 

“Then behold my incompetence!” 
said Ina. 

“But the place to look for him is 
the gambling -saloon. Been there ?” 

“Oh no.” 

“ Then vou must.” 

“What! Me! Alone?” 

“No ; with your agent.” 

‘ ‘ Oh, my friend ; I said you would 
find him.” 

“ What a woman ! She will have it 
he is in Homburg. And suppose we 
do find him, and you should not be 
welcome ?” 

‘ ‘ I shall not be unwelcome. I shall 
he a change 

“ Shall I tell you how to draw him 
to Homburg* wherever he is?” said 
Ashmead, very demurely. 

“Yes, tell me that.” 

“And do me a good turn into the 
bargain.” 

“Is it possible? Can I be so fort- 
unate ?” 

“ Yes ; and as you say , it is a slice 
of luck to be able to kill two birds with 
one stone. Why, consider — the way 
to recover a man is not to run after 
him, but to make him run to you. It 
is like catching moths ; you don’t run 
out into the garden after them ; you 
light the candle and open the window, 
and they do the rest — as he will.” 

“Yes, yes; but what am I to do 
for you ?” asked Ina, getting a little 
uneasy and suspicious. 

“What! didn’t I tell you?” said 
Ashmead, with cool effrontery. 
“Why, only to sing for me in this lit- 
tle opera, that is all.” And he put 


10 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


his hands in his pockets, and awaited 
thunder-claps. 

“Oh, that is all, is it?” said Ina, 
panting a little, and turning two great, 
reproachful eyes on him. 

“That is all,” said he, stoutly. 
“Why, what attracted him at first? 
Wasn’t it your singing, the admiration 
of the public, the bouquets and bravas ? 
What caught the moth once will catch 
it again — ‘ moping ’ won’t. And sure- 
ly you will not refuse to draw him, 
merely because you can pull me out of 
a fix into the bargain. Look here, I 
have undertaken to find a singer by to- 
morrow night ; and what chance is 
there of my getting even a third-rate 
one? Why, the very hour I have 
spent so agreeably, talking to you, has 
diminished my chance.” 

“Oh!” said Ina, “this is driving 
me into your net.” 

“ I own it,” said Joseph, cheerfully ; 
“I’m quite unscrupulous, because I 
know you will thank me afterward.” 

“The very idea of going back to 
the stage makes me tremble,” said 
Ina. 

“ Of course it does ; and those who 
tremble succeed. In a long experi- 
ence I never knew an instance to the 
contrary. It is the conceited fools, 
who feel safe, that are in danger.” 

“What is the part?” 

“One you know — Siebel in ‘ Faust,’ 
with two new songs.” 

“Excuse me, I do not know it.” 

“ Why, every body knows it.” 

“You mean every body has heard 
it sung. I know neither the music 
nor the words, and I can not sing in- 
correctly even for you.” 

“Oh, you can master the airs in a 
day, and the cackle in half an hour.” 

“I am not so expeditious. If you 
are serious, get me the book — oh ! he 
calls the poet’s words the cackle — and 
the music of the part directly, and bor- 
row me the score.” 

“ Borrow you the score ! Ah! that 
3hows the school you were bred in. 
1 gaze at you with admiration.” 

“Then please don’t, for we have 


not a moment to waste. You have 
terrified me out of my senses. Fly !” 

“ Yes; but before 1 fly, there is some- 
thing to be settled — salary ! ” 

“As much as they will give.” 

“ Of course ; but give me a hint.” 

“No, no; you will get me some 
money, for I am poor. I gave all my 
savings to my dear mother, and settled 
her on a farm in dear old Denmark. 
But I really sing for you more than 
for Homburg, so make no difficulties. 
Above all, do not discuss salary with 
me. Settle it and draw it for me, and 
let me hear no more about that. I 
am on thorns.” 

He soon found the director, and 
told him, excitedly, there was a way 
out of his present difficulty. Ina 
Klosking was in the town. He had 
implored her to return to the opera. 
She had refused at first ; but he had 
used all his influence with her, and at 
last had obtained a half promise on 
conditions — a two months’ engage- 
ment ; certain parts, which he specified 
out of his own head ; salary, a hundred 
thalers per night, and a half clear ben- 
efit on her last appearance. 

The director demurred to the sal- 
ary. 

Ashmead said he w r as mad : she was 
the German Alboni ; her low notes 
like a trumpet, and the compass of a 
mezzo-soprano besides. 

The director yielded, and drew up 
the engagement in duplicate. Ash- 
mead then borrowed the music and 
came back to the inn triumphant. He 
waved the agreement over his head, 
then submitted it to her. She glanced 
at it, made a wry face, and said, “ Two 
months ! I never dreamed of such a 
thing.” 

“Not worth your while to do it for 
less,” said Ashmead. “Come,” said 
he, authoritatively, “you have got a 
good bargain every way ; so sign.” 

She lifted her head high, and looked 
at him like a lioness, at being ordered. 

Ashmead replied by putting the pa- 
per before her and giving her the pen. 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


11 


She cast one move reproachful 
glance, then signed like a lamb. 

“Now,” said she, turning fretful, 
“I want a piano.” 

“You shall have one,” said he, coax- 
ingly. He went to the landlord and 
inquired if there was a piano in the 
house. 

“ Yes, there is one,” said he. 

“And it is mine,” said a sharp fe- 
male voice. 

“ May I beg the use of it ?” 

“No,” said the lady, a tall, bony 
spinster. “I can not have it strum- 
med on and put out of tune by every 
body.” 

“ But this is not every body. The 
lady I want it for is a professional mu- 
sician. Top of the tree. ” 

“The hardest strummers going.” 

“But, mademoiselle, this lady is go- 
ing to sing at the opera. She must 
study. She must have a piano.” 

“But [grimly] she need not have 
mine.” 

“Then she must leave the hotel.” 

“Oh [haughtily], that is as she 
pleases.” 

Ashmead went to Ina Klosking in a 
rage and told her all this, and said he 
would take her to another hotel kept 
by a Frenchman : these Germans were 
bears. But Ina Klosking just shrug- 
ged her shoulders, and said, “Take 
me to her.” 

He did so ; and she said, in Ger- 
man, “ Madam, I can quite under- 
stand your reluctance to have your pi- 
ano strummed. But as your hotel is 
quiet and respectable, and I am un- 
willing to leave it, will you permit me 
to play to you ? and then you shall de- 
cide whether I am worthy to stay or 
not.” 

The spinster drank those mellow ac- 
cents, colored a little, looked keenly at 
the speaker, and, after a moment’s re- 
flection, said, half sullenly, “ No, mad- 
am, you are polite. I must risk my 
poor piano. Be pleased to come with 
me.” 

She then conducted them to a large, 
unoccupied room on the first-floor, and 


unlocked the piano, a very fine one, 
and in perfect tune. 

Ina sat down, and performed a com- 
position then in vogue. 

“You play correctly, madam,” said 
the spinster ; “ but your music — what 
stuff! Such things are null. They 
vex the ear a little, but they never 
reach the mind.” 

Ashmead was wroth, and could 
hardly contain himself ; but the Klos- 
king was amused, and rather pleased. 
“Mademoiselle has positive tastes in 
music, ” said she ; “ all the better.” 

“Yes,” said the spinster, “most 
music is mere noise. I hate and de- 
spise forty - nine compositions out of 
fifty ; but the fiftieth I adore. Give 
me something simple, with a little soul 
in it — if you can.” 

Ina Klosking looked at her, and ob- 
served her age and her dress, the lat- 
ter old-fashioned. She said, quietly, 
“Will mademoiselle do me the honor 
to stand before me? I will sing her a 
trifle my mother taught me. ” 

The spinster complied, and stood 
erect and stiff', with her arms folded. 
Ina fixed her deep eyes on her, play- 
ing a liquid prelude all the time, then 
swelled her chest and sung the old 
Venetian canzonet, “ II pescatore dell’ 
onda.” It is a small thing, but there is 
no limit to the genius of song. The 
Klosking sung this trifle with a voice 
so grand, sonorous, and sweet, and, 
above all, with such feeling, taste, and 
purity, that somehow she transported 
her hearers to Venetian waters, moon- 
lit, and thrilled them to the heart, while 
the great glass chandelier kept ring- 
ing very audibly, so true, massive, and 
vibrating were her tones in that large, 
empty room. 

At the first verse that cross-grained 
spinster, with real likes and dislikes, 
put a bony hand quietly before her 
eyes. At the last, she made three 
strides, as a soldier marches, and fell 
all of a piece, like a wooden manne- 
quin , on the singer’s neck. “Take my 
piano,” she sobbed, “for you have 
taken the heart out of my body.” 


12 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


Ina returned her embrace, and did 
not conceal her pleasure. “ I am very 
proud of such a conquest,” said she. 

From that hour Ina was the land- 
lady’s pet. The room and piano were 
made over to her, and, being in a great 
fright at what she had undertaken, she 
studied and practiced her part night 
and day. She made Ashmead call a 
rehearsal next day, and she came home 
from it wretched and almost hysterical. 

She summoned her slave Ashmead ; 
he stood before her with an air of hyp- 
ocritical submission. 

“The Flute was not at rehearsal, 
sir,” said she, severely, “ nor the Oboe, 
nor the Violoncello.” 

“Just like ’em,” said Ashmead, 
tranquilly. 

“The tenor is a quavering stick. 
He is one of those who think that an 
unmanly trembling of the voice repre- 
sents every manly passion.” 

“Their name is legion.” 

“The soprano is insipid. And 
they are all imperfect — contentedly 
imperfect. How can people sing in- 
correctly? It is like lying.” 

“That is what makes it so com- 
mon — he! he!” 

“ I do not desire wit, but consola- 
tion. I believe you are Mephistoph- 
eles himself in disguise ; for ever since 
I signed that diabolical compact you 
made me, I have been in a state of 
terror, agitation, misgiving, and misery 
— and I thank and bless you for it ; 
for these thorns and nettles they lac- 
erate me, and make me live. They 
break the dull, lethargic agony of utter 
desolation.” 

Then, as her nerves were female 
nerves, and her fortitude female forti- 
tude, she gave way, for once, and be- 
gan to cry patiently. 

Ashmead the practical went softly 
away, and left her, as we must leave 
her for a time, to battle her business 
with one hand and her sorrow with 
the other. 


CHAPTER II. 

In the Hotel Russie, at Frankfort, 
there was a grand apartment, lofty, 
spacious, and richly furnished, with a 
broad balcony overlooking the Platz, 
and roofed, so to speak, with colored 
sun-blinds, which softened the glare 
of the Rhineland sun to a rosy and 
mellow light. 

In the veranda, a tall English gen- 
tleman was leaning over the balcony, 
smoking a cigar, and being courted by 
a fair young lady. Her light-gray eyes 
dwelt on him in a way to magnetize a 
man, and she purred pretty nothings 
at his ear, in a soft tone she reserved 
for males. Her voice was clear, loud, 
and rather high-pitched whenever she 
spoke to a person of her own sex ; a 
comely English blonde, with pale eye- 
lashes ; a keen, sensible girl, and not 
a downright wicked one; only born 
artful. This was Fanny Dover; and 
the tall gentleman — whose relation she 
was, and whose wife she resolved to 
be in one year, three years, or ten, 
according to his power of resistance 
— was Harrington Vizard, a Barford- 
shire squire, with twelve thousand 
acres and a library. 

As for Fanny, she had only two 
thousand pounds in all the world ; so 
compensating Nature endowed her 
with a fair complexion, gray, mesmer- 
ic eyes, art, and resolution — qualities 
that often enable a poor girl to con- 
quer landed estates, with their male 
incumbrances. 

Beautiful and delicate — on the sur- 
face — as was Miss Dover’s courtship 
of her first cousin once removed, it did 
not strike fire ; it neither pleased nor 
annoyed him ; it fell as dead as a lan- 
tern firing on an iceberg. Not that 
he disliked her by any means. But 
he was thirty-two, had seen the world, 
and had been unlucky with women. 
So he was now a divorce , and a de- 
clared woman-hater; railed on them, 
and kept them at arms-length, Fanny 
Dover included. It was ready comic- 
al to see with what perfect coolness and 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


13 


cynical apathy he parried the stealthy 
advances of this cat-like girl, a mis- 
tress in the art of pleasing — when she 
chose. 

Inside the room, on a couch of crim- 
son velvet, sat a young lady of rare 
and dazzling beauty. Her face was a 
long but perfect oval, pure forehead, 
straight nose, with exquisite nostrils ; 
coral lips, and ivory teeth. But what 
first struck the beholder were her 
glorious dark eyes, and magnificent 
eyebrows as black as jet. Her hair 
was really like a raven’s dark-purple 
wing. 

These beauties, in a stern character, 
might have inspired awe ; the more 
so as her form and limbs were grand 
and statuesque for her age; but all 
was softened down to sweet woman- 
hood by long, silken lashes, often low- 
ered, and a gracious face that blushed 
at a word, blushed little, blushed much, 
blushed pinky, blushed pink, blushed 
roseate, blushed i'osy ; and, I am sor- 
ry to sav, blushed crimson, and even 
scarlet, in the course of those events 
I am about to record, as unblushing 
as turnip, and cool as cucumber. This 
scale of blushes arose not out of mod- 
esty alone, but out of the wide range 
of her sensibility. On hearing of a 
noble deed, she blushed warm appro- 
bation ; at a worthy sentiment, she 
blushed heart-felt sympathy. If you 
said a thing at the fire that might hurt 
some person at the farthest window, 
she would blush for fear it should be 
overheard, and cause pain. 

In short, it was her peculiarity to 
blush readily for matters quite outside 
herself, and to show the male observer 
(if any) the amazing sensibility, apart 
from egotism, that sometimes adorns 
a young, high-minded woman, not yet 
hardened by the world. 

This young lady was Zoe Vizard, 
daughter of Harrington’s father by a 
Greek mother, who died when she was 
twelve years of age. Her mixed ori- 
gin showed itself curiously. In her 
figure and face she was all Greek, even 
to her hand, which was molded divine- 


ly, but as long and large as befitted 
her long, grand, antique arm ; but her 
mind was Northern — not a grain of 
Greek subtlety in it. Indeed, she 
would have made a poor hand at dark 
deceit, with a transparent face and el- 
oquent blood, that kept coursing from 
her heart to her cheeks and back again, 
and painting her thoughts upon her 
countenance. 

Having installed herself, with fem- 
inine instinct, in a crimson couch that 
framed her to perfection, Zoe Vizard 
was at work embroidering. She had 
some flowers, and their leaves, lying 
near her on a little table, and, with 
colored silks, chenille, etc., she imi- 
tated each flower and its leaf very 
adroitly without a pattern. This was 
clever, and, indeed, rather a rare tal- 
ent ; but she lowered her head over 
this work with a demure, beaming 
complacency, embroidery alone never 
yet excited without external assist- 
ance. Accordingly, on a large stool, 
or little ottoman, at her feet, but at a 
respectful distance, sat a young man, 
almost her match in beauty, though in 
quite another style. In height about 
five feet ten, broad-shouldered, clean- 
built, a model of strength, agility, and 
grace. His face fair, fresh, andhealthy- 
looking ; his large eyes hazel ; the crisp 
curling hair on his shapely head a won- 
derful brown in the mass, but with one 
thin streak of gold above the forehead, 
and all the loose hairs glittering gold- 
en. A short clipped mustache saved 
him from looking too feminine, yet did 
not hide his expressive mouth. He 
had white hands, as soft and supple as 
a woman’s, a mellow voice, and a win- 
ning tongue. This dangerous young 
gentleman was gazing softly on Zoe 
Vizard and purring in her ear; and 
she was conscious of his gaze without 
looking at him, and was sipping the 
honey, and showed it, by seeming more 
absorbed in her work than girls ever 
really are. 

Matters, however, had not gone 
openly very far. She was still on 
her defense : so, after imbibing his 


14 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


flatteries demurely a long time, she 
discovered, all in one moment, that 
they were objectionable. “ Dear me, 
Mr. Severne,” said she, “you do noth- 
ing but pay compliments.” 

“ How can I help it, sitting here?” 
inquired he. 

“ There — there,” said she : then, 
quietly, “Does it never occur to you 
that only foolish people are pleased 
with flatteries ?” 

“ I have heard that ; but I don’t be- 
lieve it. I know it makes me awfully 
happy whenever you say a kind word 
of me.” 

“That is far from proving your 
wisdom,” said Zoe; “and, instead of 
dwelling on my perfections, which do 
not exist, I wish you would tell me 
things.” 

“What things?” 

“How can I tell till I hear them? 
Well, then, things about yourself.” 

“ That is a poor subject.” 

“ Let me be the judge.” 

“ Oh, there are lots of fellows who 
are always talking about themselves : 
let me be an exception.” 

This answer puzzled Zoe, and she 
was silent, and put on a cold look. 
She was not accustomed to be refused 
any thing reasonable. 

Severne examined her closely, and 
saw he was expected to obey her. He 
then resolved to prepare, in a day or 
two, an autobiography full of details 
that should satisfy Zoe’s curiosity, and 
win her admiration and her love. But 
he could not do it all in a moment, 
because his memory of his real life 
obstructed his fancy. Meantime he 
operated a diversion. He said, “ Set 
a poor fellow an example. Tell me 
something about yourself — since I have 
the bad taste, and the presumption, to 
be interested in you, and can’t help it. 
Did you spring from the foam of the 
Archipelago? or are you descended 
from Bacchus and Ariadne ?” 

“If you want sensible answers, ask 
sensible questions,” said Zoe, trying to 
frown him down with her black brows ; 
but her sweet cheek would tint itself, 


and her sweet mouth smile and expose 
much intercoral ivory. 

“Well, then,” said he, “I will ask 
you a prosaic question, and I only hope 
you won’t think it impertinent. How 
— ever — did such a strangely assorted 
party as yours come to travel together ? 
And if Vizard has turned woman-hater, 
as he pretends, how comes he to be at 
the head of a female party who are 
not all of them — ” he hesitated. 

“Go on, Mr. Severne; not all of 
them what ?” said Zoe, prepared to 
stand up for her sex. 

* ‘ Not perfect ?” 

“That is a very cautious statement, 
and — there — you are as slippery as an 
eel ; there is no getting hold of you. 
Well, never mind, I will set you an ex- 
ample of communicativeness, and re- 
veal this mystery hidden as yet from 
mankind.” 

“Speak, dread queen; thy servant 
heareth.” 

“Ha! ha! ha! Mr. Severne, you 
amuse me." 

“You only interest me," was the 
soft reply. 

Zoe blushed pink, but turned it off. 
“Then why do you not attend to 
my interesting narrative, instead of — 
Well, then, it began with my asking 
the dear fellow to take me a tour, es- 
pecially to Rome.” 

“You wanted to see the statues of 
your ancestors, and shame them.” 

“ Much obliged ; I was not quite 
such a goose. I wanted to see the 
Tiber, and the Colosseum, and Trajan’s 
pillar, and the Tarpeian rock, and the 
one everlasting city that binds ancient 
and modern history together.” 

She flashed her great eyes on him, 
and he was dumb. She had risen 
above the region of his ideas. Having 
silenced her commentator, she returned 
to her story. “ Well, dear Harring- 
ton said * yes ’ directly. So then I told 
Fanny, and she said, ‘ Oh, do take me 
with you ?’ Now, of course I was only 
too glad to have Fanny ; she is my re- 
lation, and my friend.” 

“Happy girl!” 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


“Be quiet, please. So I asked 
Harrington to let me have Fanny with 
us, and you should have seen his face. 
What, he travel with a couple of us ! 
He — I don’t see why I should tell 
you what the monster said.” 

“ Oh yes, please do.” 

“You won’t go telling any body 
else, then ?” 

“ Not a living soul, upon my honor.” 

“Well, then, he said” — she began 
to blush like a rose — “that he looked 
on me as a mere female in embryo ; I 
had not yet developed the vices of my 
sex. But Fanny Dover was a ripe 
flirt, and she would set me flirting, and 
how could he manage the pair? In 
short, sir, he refused to take us, and 
gave his reasons, such as they were, 
poor dear! Then I had to tell Fan- 
ny. Then she began to cry, and told 
me to go without her. But I would 
not do that, when I had once asked 
her. Then she clung round my neck, 
and kissed me, and begged me to be 
cross and sullen, and tire out dear Har- 
rington.” 

“ That is like her.” 

“How do you know?” said Zoe, 
sharply. 

“ Oh, I have studied her character.” 

“ When, pray ?” said Zoe, ironical- 
ly, yet blushing a little, because her se- 
cret meaning was, “ You are always 
at my apron-strings, and have no time 
to fathom Fanny.” 

“ When I have nothing better to 
do — when you are out of the room.” 

“ Well, I shall be out of the room 
very soon, if you say another word.” 

“And serve me right, too. I am a 
fool to talk when you allow me to list- 
en.” 

“He is incorrigible !” said Zoe, pa- 
thetically. “ Well, then, I refused to 
pout at Harrington. It is not as if 
he had no reason to distrust women, 
poor dear darling. I invited Fanny 
to stay a month with us ; and, when 
once she was in the house, she soon 
got over me, and persuaded me to play 
sad, and showed me how to do it. So 
we wore long faces, and sweet resig- 


1 » 

nation, and were never cross, but kept 
turning tearful eyes upon our victim.” 

“ Ha ! ha ! How absurd of Vizard 
to tell you that two women would be 
too much for one man.” 

“No, it was the truth ; and girls are 
artful creatures, especially when they 
put their heads together. But hear 
the end of all our cunning. One day, 
after dinner, Harrington asked us to 
sit opposite him; so we did, and felt 
guilty. He surveyed us in silence a 
little while, and then he said, ‘ My 
young friends, you have played your 
little game pretty well, especially you, 
Zoe, that are a novice in the fine arts 
compared with Miss Dover.’ Histri- 
onic talent ought to be rewarded ; he 
would relent, and take us abroad, on 
one condition : there must be a chape- 
rone. ‘All the better,’ said we hypo- 
crites, eagerly ; ‘ and who ?’ ” 

“ ‘ Oh, a person equal to the occa- 
sion — an old maid as bitter against 
men as ever grapes were sour. She 
would follow us upstairs, down-stairs, 
and into my lady’s chamber. She 
would have an eye at the key-hole by 
day, and an ear by night, when we 
went up to bed and talked over the 
events of our frivolous day.’ In short, 
he enumerated our duenna’s perfec- 
tions till our blood ran cold ; and it 
was ever so long before be would tell 
us who it was — Aunt Maitland. We 
screamed with surprise. They are 
like cat and dog, and never agree, ex- 
cept to differ. We sought an expla- 
nation of this strange choice. He 
obliged us. It was not for his grati- 
fication he took the old cat ; it was for 
us. She would relieve him of a vast 
responsibility. The vices of her char- 
acter would prove too strong for the 
little faults of ours, which were only 
volatility, frivolity, flirtation — I will 
not tell you what he said.” 

“I seem to hear Harrington talk- 
ing,” said Severne. “ What on earth 
makes him so hard upon women ? 
Would you mind telling me that?” 

‘ ‘Never ask me that question again, ” 
said Zoe, with sudden gravity. 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


lt> 


“Well, I won’t; I’ll get it out of 
him.” 

“ If you say a word to him about it, 

I shall be shocked and offended.” 

She was pale and red by turns ; but 
Severne bowed his head with a respect- 
ful submission that disarmed her di- 
rectly. She turned her head away, 
and Severne, watching her, saw her 
eyes fill. 

“ How is it,” said she, thoughtfully, 
and looking away from him, “that 
men leave out their sisters when they 
sum up womankind? Are not we 
women too? My poor brother quite 
forgets he has one woman who will 
never, never desert nor deceive him ; 
dear, darling fellow!” and with these 
three last words she rose, and kissed 
the tips of her fingers, and waved the 
kiss to Vizard with that free magni- 
tude of gesture which belonged to an- 
tiquity : it struck the Anglo - Saxon 
flirt at her feet with amazement. Not 
having good enough under his skin 
to sympathize with that pious impulse, 
he first stagnated a little while ; and 
then, not to be silent altogether, made 
his little, stale, commonplace com- 
ment on what she had told him. 
“ Why, it is like a novel.” 

“A very unromantic one,” replied 
Zoe. 

“I don’t know that. I have read 
very interesting novels with fewer new 
characters than this: there’s a dark 
beauty, and a fair, and a duenna with 
an eagle eye and an aquiline nose.” 

“Hush!” said Zoe: “that is her 
room and pointed to a chamber door 
that opened into the apartment. 

Oh, marvelous female instinct! 
The duenna in charge was at that 
moment behind that very door, and 
her eye and her ear at the key-hole, 
turn about. 

Severne continued his remarks, but 
in a lower voice. 

“Then there’s a woman-hater and a 
man-hater: good for dialogue.” 

Now this banter did not please Zoe ; 
so she fixed her eyes upon Severne, 
and said, “You forget the principal 


figure — a mysterious young gentleman 
who looks nineteen, and is twenty- 
nine, and was lost sight of in England 
nine years ago. He has been travel- 
ing ever since, and wherever he went 
he flirted ; we gather so much from 
his accomplishment in the art ; fluent, 
not to say voluble at times, but no 
egotist ; for he never tells you any 
thing about himself, nor even about his 
family, still less about the numerous 
affaires de coeur in which he has been 
engaged. Perhaps he is reserving it 
all for the third volume.” 

The attack was strong and sudden, 
but it failed. Severne, within the lim- 
its of his experience, was a consum- 
mate artist, and this situation was not 
new to him. He cast one gently re- 
proachful glance on her, then lowered 
his eyes to the carpet, and kept them 
there. “Do you think,” said he, in a 
low, dejected voice, “ it can be any 
pleasure to a man to relate the follies 
of an idle, aimless life? and to you, 
who have given me higher aspirations, 
and made me awfully sorry, I can not 
live my whole life over again. I can’t 
bear to think of the years I have 
wasted,” said he; “and how can I 
talk to you, whom I reverence, of the 
past follies I despise ? No, pray don’t 
ask me to risk your esteem. It is so 
dear to me.” 

Then this artist put in practice a 
little manoeuvre be had learned of 
compressing his muscles and forcing 
a little unwilling water into his eyes. 
So, at the end of his pretty little 
speech, he raised two gentle, imploring 
eyes, with half a tear in each of them. 
To be sure, Nature assisted his art for 
once ; he did bitterly regret, but out 
of pure egotism, the years he had 
wasted, and wished with all his heart 
he had never known any woman but 
Zoe Vizard. 

The combination of art and sincer- 
ity was too much for the guileless and 
inexperienced Zoe. She was grieved 
at the pain she had given, and rose to 
retire, for she felt they were both on 
dangerous ground ; but, as she turned 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


away, she made a little, deprecating 
gesture, and said, softly, “Forgive me.” 

That soft tone gave Severne courage, 
and that gesture gave him an opportu- 
nity. He seized her hand, murmured, 
“Angel of goodness!” and bestowed 
a long, loving kiss on her hand that 
made it quiver under his lips. 

“Oh!” cried Miss Maitland, burst- 
ing into the room at the nick of time, 
yet feigning amazement. 

Fanny heard the ejaculations, and 
whipped away from Harrington into 
the window. Zoe, with no motive but 
her own coyness, had already snatched 
her hand away from Severne. 

But both young ladies were one mo- 
ment too late. The eagle eye of a 
terrible old maid had embraced the 
entire situation, and they saw it had. 

Harrington Vizard, Esq., smoked 
on, with his back to the group. But 
the rest were a picture — the mutinous 
face and keen eyes of Fanny Dover, 
bristling with defense, at the window ; 
Zoe blushing crimson, and newly start- 
ed away from her too - enterprising 
wooer; and the tall, thin, grim old 
maid, standing stiff, as sentinel, at the 
bedroom door, and gimleting both her 
charges alternately with steel - gray 
orbs ; she seemed like an owl, all eyes 
and beak. 

When the chaperon had fixed the 
situation thoroughly, she stalked erect 
into the room, and said, very express- 
ively, “I am afraid I disturb you.” 

Zoe, from crimson, blushed scarlet, 
and hung her head ; but Fanny was 
ready. 

“La! aunt,” said she, ironically, 
and with pertness infinite, “you know 
you are always welcome. Where ever 
have you been all this time? We 
were afraid we had lost you.” 

Aunt fired her pistol in reply: “I 
was not far off— most fortunately. ” 

Zoe, finding that, even under crush- 
ing circumstances, Fanny had fight in 
her, glided instantly to her side, and 
Aunt Maitland opened battle all round. 

“May I ask, sir, ’’said she to Sev- I 


17 

erne, with a horrible smile, ‘ £ what you 
were doing when I came in ?” 

Zoe clutched Fanny, and both await- 
ed Mr. Severne’s reply for one moment 
with keen anxiety. 

“My dear Miss Maitland,” said 
that able young man, very respectfully, 
yet with a sort of cheerful readiness, 
as if he were delighted at her deigning 
to question him, “ to tell you the truth, 
I was admiring Miss Vizard’s diamond 
ring.” 

Fanny tittered ; Zoe blushed again 
at such a fib and such aplomb. 

“ Oh, indeed,” said Miss Maitland ; 
“you were admiring it very close, sir.” 

“It is like herself — it will bear in- 
spection.” 

This was wormwood to Miss Mait- 
land. “Even in our ashes live their 
wonted fires and, though she was 
sixty, she disliked to hear a young 
woman praised. She bridled, then re- 
turned to the attack. 

“Next time you wish to inspect it, 
you had better ask her to take it off, 
and show you.” 

“May I, Miss Maitland?” inquired 
the ingenuous youth. “She would 
not think that a liberty ?” 

His mild effrontery staggered her 
for a moment, and she glared at him, 
speechless, but soon recovered, and 
said, bitterly, “ Evidently not” With 
this she turned her back on him rather 
ungraciously, and opened fire on her 
own sex. 

“Zoe!” (sharply). 

“ Yes, aunt ” (faintly). 

“ Tell your brother — if he can leave 
off smoking — I wish to speak to him.” 

Zoe hung her head, and was in no 
hurry to bring about the proposed con- 
ference. 

While she deliberated, says Fan- 
ny, with vast alacrity, “I’ll tell him, 
aunt.” 

“Oh, Fanny !” murmured Zoe, in a 
reproachful whisper. 

“All right!” whispered Fanny in 
reply, and whipped out on to the bal- 
cony. “ Here’s Aunt Maitland wants 
to know if you ever leave off smoking;” 


18 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


and she threw a most aggressive man- 
ner into the query. 

The big man replied, composedly, 
“ Tell her I do — at meals and prayers ; 
but I always sleep with a pipe in my 
mouth — heavily insured!” 

“Well, then, you mustn’t; for she 
has something very particular to say 
to you when you’ve done smoking.” 

“Something particular! That 
means something disagreeable. Tell 
her I shall be smoking all day to-day.” 

Fanny danced into the room and 
said, “ He says he shall be smoking 
all day, under the circumstances. ” 

Miss Maitland gave this faithful 
messenger the look of a basilisk, and 
flounced to her own room. The young 
ladies instantly stepped out on the 
balcony, and got one on each side of 
Harrington, with the feminine instinct 
of propitiation ; for they felt sure the 
enemy would tell, soon or late. 

“What does the old cat want to 
talk to me about?” said Harrington, 
lazily, to Fanny. 

It was Zoe who replied, 

“Can’t you guess, dear?” said she, 
tenderly — “our misconduct.” Then 
she put her head on his shoulder, as 
much as to say, “ But we have a more 
lenient judge here.” 

“As if I could not see that without 
her assistance! ’’said Harrington Viz- 
ard. (Puff!) At which comfortable 
reply Zoe looked very rueful, and Fan- 
ny burst out laughing. 

Soon after this Fanny gave Zoe a 
look, and they retired to their rooms ; 
and Zoe said she would never come 
out again, and Fanny must stay with 
her. Fanny felt sure ennui would 
thaw that resolve in a few hours ; so 
she submitted, but declared it was ab- 
surd, and the very way to give a per- 
fect trifle importance. 

“ Kiss your hand !”said she, disdain- 
fully — “that is nothing. If I was the 
man, I’d have kissed both your cheeks 
long before this.” 

“And I should have boxed your 
ears and made you cry,” said Zoe, with 
calm superiority. 


So she had her way, and the desert, 
ed Severne felt dull, but was too good 
a general to show it. He bestowed his 
welcome company on Mr. Vizard, walk- 
ed with him, talked with him, and 
made himself so agreeable, that Viz- 
ard, who admired him greatly, said to 
him, “What a good fellow you are, to 
bestow your sunshine on me. I began 
to be afraid those girls had got you, 
and tied you to their apron-strings al- 
together. ” 

“Oh no said Severne : “ they are 
charming ; but, after all, one can’t do 
without a male friend : there are so 
few things that interest ladies. Un- 
less you can talk red-hot religion, you 
are bound to flirt with them a little. 
To be sure, they look shy, if you do, 
but if you don’t — ” 

“They are bored; whereas they 
only looked shy. I know ’em. Call 
another subject, please.” 

“ Well, I will ; but perhaps it may 
not be so agreeable a one.” 

“That is very unlikely,” said the 
woman-hater, dryly. 

“ Well, it is Tin. I’m rather short. 
You see, when I fell in with you at 
Monaco, I had no idea of coming this 
way ; but meeting with an old college 
friend — what a tie college is, isn’t it? 
There is nothing like it ; when you have 
been at college with a man, you seem 
never to wear him out, as you do the 
acquaintances you make afterward.” 

“ That is very true,” said Vizard, 
warmly. 

“ Isn’t it? Now, for instance, if I 
had only known you of late years, I 
should feel awfully shy of borrowing a 
few hundreds of you — for a month or 
two.” 

“ I don’t know why you should, old 
fellow.” 

“I should, though. But having 
been at college together makes all the 
difference. I don’t mind telling you 
that I have never been at Homburg 
without taking a turn at the table, and 
I am grizzling awfully now at not hav- 
ing sent to my man of business for 
funds.” 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


* * How much do you want ? That is 
the only question.” 

“ Glad to hear it,” thought Severne. 
“ Well, let me see, you can’t back your 
luck with less than five hundred.” 

“Well, but we have been out two 
months ; I am afraid I haven’t so 
much left. Just let me see.” He took 
out his pocket-book, and examined his 
letter of credit. “ Do you want it to- 
day ?” 

“Why, yes; Ido.” 

“Well, then, I am afraid you can 
only have three hundred. But I will 
telegraph Herries, and funds will be 
here to-morrow afternoon.” 

“All right,” said Severne. 

Vizard took him to the bank, and 
exhausted his letter of credit : then to 
the telegraph -office, and telegraphed 
Herries to enlarge his credit at once. 
He handed Severne the three hundred 
pounds. The young man’s eye flash- 
ed, and it cost him an effort not to 
snatch them and wave them over his 
head with joy : but he controlled him- 
self, and took them like twopence-half- 
penny. “Thank you, old fellow,” 
said he. Then, still more carelessly, 
“Like my I O U?” 

“As you please,” said Vizard, with 
similar indifference ; only real. 

After he had got the money, Sev- 
erae’s conversational powers- relaxed 
— short answers — long reveries. 

Vizard observed, stopped short, and 
eyed him. “I remember something 
at Oxford, and I am afraid you are a 
gambler ; if you are, you won’t be good 
for much till you have lost that three 
hundred. It will be a dull evening 
for me without you : I know what I’ll 
do — I’ll take my hen-party to the op- 
era at Homburg. There are stalls to 
be got here. I’ll get one for you, on 
the chance of your dropping in.” 

The stalls were purchased, and the 
friends returned at once to the hotel, 
to give the ladies timely intimation. 
They found Fanny and Zoe seated, 
rather disconsolate, in the apartment 
Zoe had formally renounced : at sight 
of the stall tickets, the pair uttered joy- 


19 

ful cries, looked at each other, and 
vanished. 

“ You won’t see them any more till 
dinner - time,” said Vizard. “They 
will be discussing dress, selecting dress, 
trying dresses, and changing dresses, 
for the next three hours.” He turned 
round while speaking, and there was 
Severne slipping away to his own bed- 
room. 

Thus deserted on all sides, he step- 
ped into the balcony and lighted a ci- 
gar. While he was smoking it, he ob- 
served an English gentleman, with a 
stalwart figure and a beautiful brown 
beard, standing on the steps of the ho- 
tel. “ Halloo !” said he, and hailed 
him. “ Hi, Uxmoor! is that you?” 

Lord Uxmoor looked up, and knew 
him. He entered the hotel, and the 
next minute the waiter ushered him 
into Vizard’s sitting-room. 

Lord Uxmoor, like Mr. Vizard, was 
a landed proprietor in Barfordshire. 
The county is large, and they lived too 
many miles apart to visit ; but they 
met, and agreed, at elections and 
county business, and had a respect for 
each other. 

Meeting at Frankfort, these two 
found plenty to say to each other 
about home ; and as Lord Uxmoor 
was alone, Vizard asked him to dine. 
“You will balance us,” said he : “ we 
are terribly overpetticoated, and one 
of them is an old maid. We generally 
dine at the table-d'hdte , but I have or- 
dered dinner here to-day : we are go- 
ing to the opera at Homburg. You 
are not obliged to do that, you know. 
You are in for a bad dinner, that is 
all.” 

“To tell the truth,” said Lord Ux- 
moor, “ I don’t care for music.” 

“Then you deserve a statue for not 
pretending to love it. I adore it, for 
my part, and I wish I was going alone, 
for my hens will be sure to cackle mal 
a propos , and spoil some famous melo- 
dy with talking about it, and who sung 
it in London, instead of listening to 
it, and thanking God for it in deep 
silence.” 


20 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


Lord Uxmoor stared a little at this 
sudden sally, for he was unacquainted 
with Vizard’s one eccentricity, having 
met him only on county business, at 
which he was extra rational, and pass- 
ed for a great scholar. He really did 
suck good books as well as cigars. 

After a few more words, they parted 
till dinner-time. 

Lord Uxmoor came to his appoint- 
ment, and found his host and Miss 
Maitland, whom he knew ; and he 
was in languid conversation with them, 
when a side-door opened, and in walk- 
ed Fanny Dover, fair and bright, in 
Cambridge blue, her hair well dressed 
by Zoe’s maid in the style of the day. 
Lord Uxmoor rose, and received his 
fair country-woman with respectful 
zeal ; he had met her once before. 
She, too, sparkled with pleasure at 
meeting a Barfordshire squire with a 
long pedigree, purse, and beard — three 
things she admired greatly. 

In the midst of this, in glided Zoe, 
and seemed to extinguish every body, 
and even to pale the lights, with her 
dark yet sun -like beauty. She was 
dressed in a creamy-white satin that 
glinted like mother-of-pearl, its sheen 
and glory unfrittered with a single id- 
iotic trimming ; on her breast a large 
diamond cross. Her head was an 
Athenian sculpture — no chignon, but 
the tight coils of antiquity ; at their 
side, one diamond star sparkled vivid 
flame, by its contrast with those pol- 
ished ebon snakes. 

Lord Uxmoor was dazzled, trans- 
fixed, at the vision, and bowed very 
low when Vizard introduced him in 
an off-hand way, saying, “My sister, 
Miss Vizard ; but I dare say you have 
met her at the county balls.” 

“I have never been so fortunate,” 
said Uxmoor, humbly. 

“I have,” said Zoe ; “ that is, I saw 
you waltzing with Lady Betty Gore at 
the race ball, two years ago.” 

“What!” said Vizard, alarmed. 
“Uxmoor, were you waltzing with 
Lady Betty Gore ?” 


“You have it on too high an au- 
thority for me to contradict.” 

Finding Zoe was to be trusted as a 
county chronicle, Vizard turned sharp- 
ly to her, and said, “And was he flirt- 
ing with her ?” 

Zoe colored a little, and said, “ Now, 
Harrington, how can I tell ?” 

“ You little hypocrite,” said Vizard, 
* ‘ who can tell better ?” 

At this retort Zoe blushed high, and 
the water came into her eyes. 

Nobody minded that but Uxmoor, 
and Vizard went on to explain, “ That 
Lady Betty Gore is as heartless a co- 
quette as any in the county ; and 
don’t you flirt with her, or you will 
get entangled.” 

“You disapprove her,” said Ux- 
moor, coolly ; “then I give her up for- 
ever.” He looked at Zoe while he 
said this, and felt how easy it would be 
to resign Lady Betty and a great many 
more for this peerless creature. He 
did not mean her to understand what 
was passing in his mind ; he did not 
know how subtle and observant the 
most innocent girl is in such matters. 
Zoe blushed, and drew away from him. 
Just then Ned Severne came in, and 
Vizard introduced him to Uxmoor 
with great geniality and pride. The 
charming young man was in a black 
surtout,.with a blue scarf, the very tint 
for his complexion. 

The girls looked at one another, and 
in a moment Fanny was elected Zoe’s 
agent. She signaled Severne, and 
when he came to her she said, for Zoe, 
“Don’t vou know we are going to the 
opera at Homburg?” 

“Yes, I know,” said he, “and I 
hope you will have a pleasanter even- 
ing than I shall.” 

“You are not coming with us ?” 

“No,” said he, sorrowfully. 

“You had better,” said Fanny, 
with a deal of quiet point, more, in- 
deed, than Zoe’s pride approved. 

“ Not if Mr. Severne has something 
more attractive,” said she, turning 
palish and pinkish by turns. 

All this went on sotto voce , and Ux- 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


21 


moor, out of good - breeding, entered 
into conversation with Miss Maitland 
and Vizard. Severne availed himself 
of this diversion, and fixed his eyes on 
Zoe with an air of gentle reproach, then 
took a letter out of his pocket, and 
handed it to Fanny. She read it, and 
gave it to Zoe. 

It was dated from “The Golden 
Star,” Homburg. 

“Dear Ned, — I am worse to-day, 
and all alone. Now and then I almost 
fear I may not pull through. But 
perhaps that is through being so hip- 
ped. Do come and spend this evening 
with me like a good, kind fellow. 

“ Telegraph reply. S. T.” 

“ Poor fellow,” said Ned ; “ my 
heart bleeds for him.” 

Zoe was affected by this, and turn- 
ed liquid and loving eyes on “dear 
Ned.” But Fanny stood her ground. 
“Go to ‘S. T.’ to-morrow morning, 
but don’t desert ‘Z. V.’ and ‘F. D.’ 
to-night.” Zoe smiled. 

“But I have telegraphed !” object- 
ed Ned. 

“ Then telegraph again — not” said 
Fanny, firmly. 

Now, this was unexpected. Severne 
had set his heart upon rouge et noir, 
but still he was afraid of offending 
Zoe ; and, besides, he saw Uxmoor, 
with his noble beard and brown eyes, 
casting rapturous glances at her. 
“Let Miss Vizard decide,” said he. 
“ Don’t let me be so unhappy as to 
offend her twice in one day.” 

Zoe’s pride and goodness dictated 
her answer, in spite of her wishes. 
She said, in a low voice, “ Go to your 
sick friend.” 

“ There,” said Severne. 

“I hear,” said Fanny. “She means 
‘go but you shall repent it.” 

“I mean what I say,” said Zoe, 
with real dignity. “ It is my habit.” 
And the next moment she quietly left 
the room. 

She sat down in her bedroom, mor- 
tified and alarmed. What! Had it 


come to this, that she felt her heart 
turn cold just because that young man 
said he could not accompany her — on 
a single evening ! Then first she dis- 
covered that it was for him she had 
dressed, and had, for once, beautified 
her beauty — for him ; that with Fanny 
she had dwelt upon the delights of 
the music, but had secretly thought of 
appearing publicly on his arm, and 
dazzling people by their united and 
contrasted beauty. 

She rose, all of a sudden, and look- 
ed keenly at herself in the glass, to 
see if she had not somehow overrated 
her attractions. But the glass was re- 
assuring. It told her not one man in 
a million could go to a sick friend 
that night, when he might pass the 
evening by her side, and visit his 
friend early in the morning. Best 
loved is best served. Tears of morti- 
fied vanity were in her eyes ; but she 
smiled through them at the glass ; 
then dried them carefully, and went 
back to the dining-room radiant, to 
all appearance. 

Dinner was just served, and her 
brother, to do honor to the new- 
comer, waved his sister to a seat by 
Lord Uxmoor. He looked charmed 
at the arrangement, and showed a 
great desire to please her, but at first 
was unable to find good topics. After 
several timid overtures on his part, 
she assisted him, out of good-nature. 
She knew by report that he was a 
very benevolent young man, bent on 
improving the home, habits, Avages, and 
comforts of the agricultural poor. She 
led him to this, and his eyes sparkled 
with pleasure, and his homely but 
manly face lighted, and was elevated 
by the sympathy she expressed in 
these worthy objects. He could not 
help thinking, “What a Lady Ux- 
moor this would make ! She and I 
and her brother might leaven the 
county.” 

And all this time she would not 
even bestow a glance on Severne. 
She was not an angel. She had said, 
“Go to your sick friend;” but she 


22 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


had not said, “I will smart alone if 
you do." 

Severne sat by Fanny, and seem- 
ed dejected, but, as usual, polite and 
charming. She was smilingly cruel ; 
regaled him with Lord Uxmoor’s 
wealth and virtues, and said he was 
an excellent match, and all she-Bar- 
fordshire pulling caps for him. Sev- 
erne only sighed ; he offered no resist- 
ance ; and at last she could not go on 
nagging a handsome fellow, who only 
sighed, so she said, “ Well, there; I 
advise you to join us before the opera 
is over, that is all.” 

“I will, I will!” said he, eagerly. 
“Oh, thank you.” 

Dinner was dispatched rather rap- 
idly, because of the opera. 

When the ladies got their cloaks 
and lace scarfs, to put over their 
heads coming home, the party proved 
to be only three, and the tickets five ; 
for Miss Maitland pleaded headache. 

On this, Lord Uxmoor said, rather 
timidly, he should like to go. 

“Why, you said you hated music,” 
said Vizard. 

Lord Uxmoor colored. ‘ ‘ I recant, ” 
said he, bluntly; and every body saw 
what had operated his conversion. 
That is a pun. 

It is half an hour, by rail, from 
Frankfort to Homburg, and the party 
could not be seated together. Vizard 
bestowed Zoe and Lord Uxmoor in 
one carriage, Fanny and Severne in 
another, and himself and a cigar in a 
third. Severne sat gazing piteously on 
Fanny Dover, but never said a word. 
She sat and eyed him satirically for a 
good while, and then she said, cheer- 
fully, “Well, Mr. Severne, how do you 
like the turn things are taking?” 

‘ ‘ Miss Dover, I am very unhappy. ” 

“ Serves you right.” 

“ Oh, pray don’t say that. It is on 
you I depend.” 

“On me, sir! What have I to do 
with your flirtations ?” 

“No; but you are so clever, and 
so good. If for once you will take a 
poor fellow’s part with Miss Vizard, 


behind my back ; oh, please do — pray 
do,” and, in the ardor of entreaty, he 
caught Fanny’s white hand and kissed 
it with warm but respectful devotion. 
Indeed, he held it and kissed it again 
and again, till Fanny, though she 
minded it no more than marble, was 
going to ask him satirically whether 
he had not almost done with it, when 
at last he contrived to squeeze out 
one of his little hysterical tears, and 
drop it on her hand. 

Now, the girl was not butter, like 
some of her sex ; far from it : but 
neither was she wood — indeed, she 
was not old enough for that — so this 
crocodile tear won her for the time 
being. “There — there,” said she; 
“don’t be a baby. I’ll be on your 
side to-night; only, if you care for 
her, come and look after her yourself. 
Beautiful women with money won’t 
stand neglect, Mr. Severne ; and why 
should they ? They are not like poor 
me ; they have got the game in their 
hands.” The train stopped. Vizard’s 
party drove to the opera, and Severne 
ordered a cab to The Golden Star, 
meaning to stop it and get out ; but, 
looking at his watch, he found it want- 
ed half an hour to gambling time, so 
he settled to have a cup of coffee first, 
and a cigar. With this view he let the 
man drive him to The Golden Star. 


CHAPTER III. 

Ina Klosking worked night and 
day upon Siebel, in Gounod’s “Faust,” 
and upon the songs that had been add- 
ed to give weight to the part. 

She came early to the theatre at 
night, and sat, half dressed, fatigued, 
and nervous, in her dressing-room. 

Crash! — the first coup d’archet an- 
nounced the overture, and roused her 
energy, as if Ithuriel’s spear had prick- 
ed her. She came down dressed, to 
listen at one of the upper entrances, to 
fill herself with the musical theme, be- 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


23 


fore taking her part in it, and also to 
gauge the audience and the singers. 

The man Faust was a German ; but 
the musical part Faust seems better 
suited to an Italian or a Frenchman. 
Indeed, some say that, as a rule, the 
German genius excels in creation, and 
the Italian in representation or inter- 
pretation. For my part, I am unable 
to judge nations in the lump, as some 
fine fellows do, because nations are 
composed of very different individu- 
als, and I know only one to the mill- 
ion ; but I do take on me to say that 
the individual Herr who executed Doc- 
tor Faustus at Homburg that night 
had every thing to learn, except what 
he had to unlearn. His person was 
obese ; his delivery of the words was 
mouthing, chewing, and gurgling; and 
he uttered the notes in tune, but with- 
out point, pathos, or passion ; a steady 
lay-clerk from York or Durham Ca- 
thedral would have done a little better, 
because he would have been no colder 
at heart, and more exact in time, and 
would have sung clean ; whereas this 
gentleman set his windpipe trembling, 
all through the business, as if palsy 
were passion. By what system of lev- 
erage such a man came to be hoist- 
ed on to such a pinnacle of song as 
“ Faust ” puzzled our English friends 
in front as much as it did the Anglo- 
Danish artist at the wing ; for English 
girls know what is what in opera. 

The Marguerite had a voice of 
sufficient compass, and rather sweet, 
though thin. The part demands a 
better actress than Patti, and this 
Fraulein was not half as good : she 
put on the painful grin of a prize-fight- 
er who has received a staggerer, and 
grinned all through the part, though 
there is little in it to grin at. 

She also suffered by having to play 
to a Faust milked of his poetry, and 
self- smitten with a tremolo which, 
as I said before, is the voice of palsy, 
and is not, nor ever was, nor ever 
will be, the voice of passion. Bless 
your heart, passion is a manly thing, 
a womanly thing, a grand thing, not a 


feeble, quavering, palsied, anile, senile 
thing. Learn that, ye trembling, qua- 
vering idiots of song ! 

“They let me down,” whispered 
Ina Klosking to her faithful Ashmead. 
“I feel all out of tune. I shall never 
be able. And the audience so cold. 
It will be like singing in a sepulchre.” 

“What would you think of them, 
if they applauded ?” said Ashmead. 

“I should say they were good, char- 
itable souls, and the very audience I 
shall want in five minutes.” 

“No, no,” said Ashmead, “all you 
want is a discriminating audience; 
and this is one. Remember they have 
all seen Patti in Marguerite. Is it 
likely they would applaud this tin 
stick?” 

Ina turned the conversation with 
feminine quickness. “ Mr. Ashmead, 
have you kept your promise ; my name 
is not in the programme ?” 

“It is not ; and a great mistake 
too.” 

“ I have not been announced by 
name in any way ?” 

“No. But, of course, I have nursed 
you a bit.” 

“Nursed me? What is that? 
Oh, what have you been doing? No 
charlatanerie , I hope.” 

“Nothing of the kind,” said Ash- 
mead, stoutly ; “ only the regular bus- 
iness.” 

“And pray what is the regular bus- 
iness ?” inquired Ina, distrustfully. 

“Why, of course, I sent on the 
manager to say that Mademoiselle 
Schwaub had been taken seriously ill ; 
that we had been fearing we must 
break faith with the public for the first 
time ; but that a cantatrice, who had 
left the stage, appreciating our difficul- 
ty, had, with rare kindness, come to our 
aid for this one night: we felt sure a 
Humbug audience — what am I saying? 
— a Homburg audience would appreci- 
ate this, and make due allowance for 
a performance undertaken in snch a 
spirit, and with imperfect rehearsals, 
etc. — in short, the usual patter; and 
the usual effect, great applause. In 


24 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


deed, the only applause that I have 
heard in this theatre to-night. Ash- 
mead ahead of Gounod, so far. ” 

Ina Klosking put both hands before 
her face, and uttered a little moan. 
She had really a soul above these arti- 
fices. “So, then,” said she, “ if they 
do receive me, it will be out of chari- 
ty-” 

“ No, no ; but on your first night 
you must have two strings to your 
bow.” 

“But I have only one. These ca- 
joling speeches are a waste of breath. 
A singer can sing, or she can not sing, 
and they find out which it is as soon 
as she opens her mouth.” 

“Well, then, you open your mouth 
— that is just what half the singers 
can’t do — and they will soon find out 
you can sing.” 

“ I hope they may. I do not know. 
I am discouraged. I’m terrified. I 
think it is stage-fright,” and she began 
to tremble visibly, for the time drew 
near. 

Ash mead ran off, and brought her 
some brandy-and-water. She put up 
her hand against it with royal scorn. 
“No, sir! If the theatre, and the 
lights, and the people, the mind of 
Goethe, and the music of Gounod, 
can’t excite me without that , put me 
at the counter of a cafe, for I have no 
business here.” 

The power, without violence, and 
the grandeur with which she said this 
would have brought down the house 
had she spoken it in a play without 
a note of music ; and Ashtnead drew 
back respectfully, but chuckled inter- 
nally at the idea of this Minerva giv- 
ing change in a cafe. 

And now her cue was coming. She 
ordered every body out of the entrance 
not very ceremoniously, and drew well 
back. Then, at her cue, she made a 
stately rush, and so, being in full swing 
before she cleared the wing, she swept 
into the centre of the stage with great 
rapidity and resolution ; no trace either 
of her sorrowful heart or her quaking 
limbs was visible from the front. 


There was a little applause, all da« 
to Ashmead’s preliminary apology, 
but there was no real reception ; for 
Germany is large and musical, and 
she was not immediately recognized 
at Homburg. But there was that 
indescribable flutter which marks a 
good impression and keen expectation 
suddenly aroused. She was beautiful 
on the stage, for one thing ; her fig- 
ure rather tall and stately, and her 
face full of power : and then the very 
way she came on showed the step and 
carriage of an artist at home upon the 
boards. 

She cast a rapid glance round the 
house, observed its size, and felt her 
way. She sung her first song even- 
ly, but not tamely, yet with restrained 
power ; but the tones were so full and 
flexible, the expression so easy yet ex- 
act, that the judges saw there was no 
effort, and suspected something big 
might be yet in store to-night. At 
the end of her song she did let out for 
a moment, and, at this well-timed fore- 
taste of her power, there was applause, 
but nothing extravagant. 

She was quite content, however. 
She met Ashmead, as she came off' 
and said, “All is well, my friend, so 
far. They are sitting in judgment on 
me, like sensible people, and not in a 
hurry. I rather like that.” 

“Your own fault,” said Joseph. 
“You should have been announced. 
Prejudice is a surer card than judg- 
ment. The public is an ass.” 

“It must come to the same thing 
in the end,” said the Klosking, firm- 
ly. “ One can sing, or one can not.” 

Her next song was encored, and 
she came off flushed with art and 
gratified pride. “ I have no fears 
now,” said she, to her Achates, firm- 
ly. “I have my barometer ; a young 
lady in the stalls. Oh, such a beauti- 
ful creature, with black hair and eyes! 
She applauds me fearlessly. Her glo- 
rious eves speak to mine, and inspire 
me. She is happy , she is. I drink 
sunbeams at her. I shall act and 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


25 


sing *Le Parlate d’Amor’ for her — 
and you will see.” 

Between the acts, who should come 
in but Ned Severne, and glided into 
the vacant stall by Zoe’s side. 

She quivered at his coming near 
her ; he saw it, and felt a thrill of 
pleasure himself. 

“ How is ‘ S. T. ?’ ” said she, kind- 
ly- 

“ * S. T. ?’ ” said he, forgetting. 

* ‘ Why, your sick friend, to be 
sure.” 

“Oh, not half so bad as he thought. 
I was a fool to lose an hour of you for 
him. He was hipped ; had lost all 
his money at rouge et noir. So I lent 
him fifty pounds, and that did him 
more good than the doctor. You for- 
give me ?” 

“Forgive you? I approve. Are 
you going back to him?” said she, 
demurely. 

‘ 4 No, thank you, I have made sac- 
rifices enough.” 

And so indeed he had, having got 
cleaned out of three hundred pounds 
through preferring gambling to beau- 
ty- 

“ Singers good ?” he inquired. 

“ Wretched, all but one ; and she is 
divine.” 

“ Indeed. Who is she?” 

“I don’t know. A gentleman in 
black came out — ” 

“ Mephistopheles ?” 

“No — how dare you? — and said 
a singer that had retired would per- 
form the part of ‘Siebel,’ to oblige; 
and she has obliged me for one. 
She is, oh, so superior to the others ! 
Such a heavenly contralto ; and her 
upper notes, honey dropping from the 
comb. And then she is so modest, 
so dignified, and so beautiful. She is 
fair as a lily ; and such a queen -like 
brow, and deep, gray eyes, full of sad- 
ness and soul. I’m afraid she is not 
happy. Once or twice she fixed them 
on me, and they magnetized me, and 
drew me to her. So I magnetized her 
in return. I should know her any- 
2 


where fifty years hence. Now, if I 
were a man, I should love that wom- 
an and make her love me.” 

“Then I am very glad you are not 
a man,” said Severne, tenderly. 

“So am I,” whispered Zoe, and 
blushed. 

The curtain rose. 

44 Listen now, Mr. Chatterbox,” 
said Zoe. 

Ned Severne composed himself to 
listen ; but Fraulein Graas had not 
sung many bars before he revolted, 
“Listen to what?” said he; “and 
look at what? The only Marguerite 
in the place is by my side.” 

Zoe colored with pleasure ; but her 
good sense was not to be blinded. 
“The only good black Mephistophe, 
less, you mean,” said she. “To be 
Marguerite, one must be great, and 
sweet, and tender ; yes, and far more 
lovely than ever woman was. That 
lady is a better color for the part than 
I am ; but neither she nor I shall ever 
be Marguerite.” 

He murmured in her ear, “ You are 
Marguerite, for you could fire a 
man’s heart so that he would sell Viis 
soul to gain you.” 

It was the accent of passion, and 
the sensitive girl quivered. Yet she 
defended herself— in words, “Hush!” 
said she. “That is wicked — out of 
an opera. Fanny would laugh at you, 
if she heard.” 

Here were two reasons for not 
making such hot love in the stalls of 
an opera. Which of the two weigh- 
ed most with the fair reasoner shall 
be left to her own sex. 

The brief scene ended with the dec- 
laration of the evil spirit that Margue- 
rite is lost. 

“There,” said Zoe, naively, “that 
is over, thank goodness : now you will 
hear my singer.” 

Siebel and Marta came on from op- 
posite sides of the stage. “See!” 
said Zoe, “isn’t she lovely ?” and she 
turned her beaming face full on Sev- 
erne, to share her pleasure with him. 
To her amazement the man seemed 


26 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


transformed : a dark cloud had come 
over his sunny countenance. He sat, 
pale, and seemed to stare at the tall, 
majestic, dreamy singer, who stood 
immovable, dressed like a velvet youth, 
yet looking like no earthly boy, but a 
draped statue of Mercury, 

“New lighted on a heaven-kissing hill.” 

The blood left his lips, and Zoe 
thought he was faint ; but the next 
moment he put his handkerchief has- 
tily to his nose, and wriggled his way 
out, with a rush and a crawl, strange- 
ly combined, at the very moment when 
the singer delivered her first command- 
ing note of recitative. 

Every body about looked surprised 
and disgusted at so ill-timed an exit ; 
but Zoe, who had seen his white face, 
was seriously alarmed, and made a 
movement to rise too, and watch, or 
even follow him ; but, when he got to 
the side, he looked back to her, and 
made her a signal that his nose was 
bleeding, but it was of no great con- 
sequence. He even pointed with his 
finger out and then back again, indi- 
cating he should not be long gone. 

This re -assured her greatly; for 
she had always been told a little 
bleeding of that sort was good for 
hot-headed young people. 

Then the singer took complete hold 
of her. The composer, to balance the 
delightful part of Marguerite, has giv- 
en Siebel a melody with which won- 
ders can be done ; and the Klosking 
had made a considerable reserve of 
her powers for this crowning effort. 
After a recitative that rivaled the sil- 
ver trumpet, she flung herself with im- 
mediate and electrifying ardor into the 
melody ; the orchestra, taken by sur- 
prise, fought feebly for the old ripple ; 
but the Klosking, resolute by nature, 
was now mighty as Neptune, and 
would have her big waves. The mo- 
mentary struggle, in which she was 
loyally seconded by the conductor, 
evoked her grand powers. Catgut 
had to yield to brains, and the whole 
orchestra, composed, after all, of good 


musicians, soon caught the divine a f 
flatus, and the little theatre seemed 01 
fire with music ; the air, sung with s 
large rhythm, swelled and rose, an< 
thrilled every breast with amazemen 
and delight ; the house hung breath 
less ; bv-and-by there were pale cheeks, 
panting bosoms, and wet eyes, the true, 
rare triumphs of the sovereigns of song; 
and when the last note had pealed and 
ceased to vibrate, the pent-up feelings 
broke forth in a roar of applause, 
which shook the dome, followed by a 
clapping of hands, like a salvo, that 
never stopped till Ina Klosking, who 
had retired, came forward again. 

She courtesied with admirable dig- 
nity, modesty, and respectful gravity, 
and the applause thundered, and peo- 
ple rose at her in clusters about the 
house, and waved their hats and hand- 
kerchiefs at her, and a little Italian 
recognized her, and cried out as loud 
as he could, “Viva la Klosking! vi- 
va!” and she heard that, and it gave 
her a thrill ; and Zoe Vizard, being 
out of England, and, therefore, brave 
as a lioness, stood boldly up at her 
full height, and, taking her bouquet 
in her right hand, carried it swiftly to 
her left ear, and so flung it, with a 
free back-handed sweep, more Orient- 
al than English, into the air, and it 
lighted beside the singer; and she 
saw the noble motion, and the bou- 
quet fly, and, when she made her last 
courtesy at the wing, she fixed her 
eyes on Zoe, and then put her hand 
to her heart with a most touching 
gesture that said, “ Most of all I val- 
ue your bouquet and your praise.” 

Then the house buzzed, and ranks 
were leveled ; little people spoke to 
big people, and big to little, in mutu- 
al congratulation ; for at such rare 
moments (except in Anglo-Saxony) 
instinct seems to tell men that truo 
art is a sunshine of the soul, and 
blesses the rich and the poor alike. 

One person was affected in another 
way. Harrington Vizard sat rapt in 
attention, and never took his eyes off 
| her, yet said not a word. 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


27 


Several Russian and Prussian gran- 
dees sought an introduction to the 
new singer. But she pleaded fa- 
tigue. 

The manager entreated her to sup 
with him, and meet the Grand Duke 
of Hesse. She said she had a prior 
engagement. 

She went quietly home, and supped 
with her faithful Ashmead, and very 
heartily too ; for nature was exhaust- 
ed, and agitation had quite spoiled 
her dinner. 

Joseph Ashmead, in the pride of 
his heart, proposed a bottle of Cham- 
pagne. The Queen of Song, with 
triumph flushed, looked rather blue 
at that. “ My friend,” said she, in a 
meek, deprecating way, “ we are work- 
ing-people: is not Bordeaux good 
enough for us ?” 

“Yes; but it is not good enough 
for the occasion,” said Joseph, a little 
testily. “Well, never mind and he 
muttered to himself, “that is the worst 
of good women : they are so terribly 
stingy.” 

The Queen of Song, with triumph 
flushed, did not catch these words, 
but only a little growling. However, 
as supper proceeded, she got uneasy. 
So she rang the bell, and ordered a 
pint : of this she drank one spoonful. 
The remainder, co-operating with tri- 
umph and claret, kept Ashmead in 
a great flow of spirits. He traced 
her a brilliant career. To be photo- 
graphed to-morrow morning as Sie- 
bel, and in plain dress. Paragraphs 
in Era , Figaro , Galignani , Indtfpen- 
dance Beige, and the leading dailies. 
Large wood-cuts before leaving Hom- 
burg for Paris, London, Vienna, St. 
Petersburg, and New York.” 

“I’m in your hands,” said she, and 
smiled languidly, to please him. 

But by -and- by he looked at her, 
and found she was taking a little cry 
all to herself. 

“Dear me!” said he, “ what is the 
matter ?” 

“My friend, forgive me. He was 
not there to share my triumph.” 


CHAPTER IV. 

As the opera drew to an end, Zoe 
began to look round more and more 
for Severne ; but he did not come, 
and Lord Uxmoor offered his arm 
earnestly. She took it; but hung 
back a moment on his very arm, to 
tell Harrington Mr. Severne had been 
taken ill. 

At the railway station the truant 
emerged suddenly, just as the train 
was leaving; but Lord Uxmoor had 
secured three seats, and the defaulter 
had to go with Harrington. On reach- 
ing the hotel, the ladies took their bed- 
candles ; but Uxmoor found time to 
propose an excursion next day, Sun- 
day, to a lovely little lake — open car- 
riage, four horses. The young ladies 
accepted, but Mr. Severne declined ; 
he thanked Lord Uxmoor politely, but 
he had arrears of correspondence. 

Zoe cast a mortified and rather a 
haughty glance on him, and Fanny 
shrugged her shoulders incredulously. 

These two ladies brushed hair to- 
gether in Zoe’s room. That is a 
soothing operation, my masters, and 
famous for stimulating females to 
friendly gossip ; but this time there 
was, for once, a guarded reserve. 
Zoe was irritated, puzzled, mortified, 
and even grieved by Severne’s con-, 
duct. Fanny was gnawed by jeal- 
ousy, and out of temper. She had 
forgiven Zoe Ned Severne. But that 
young lady was insatiable ; Lord Ux- 
moor, too, had fallen openly in love 
with her — openly to a female eye. So, 
then, a blonde had no chance, with a 
dark girl by : thus reasoned she, and 
it was intolerable. 

It was some time before either 
spoke an atom of what was upper- 
most in her mind. They each doled 
out a hundred sentences that missed 
the mind and mingled readily with 
the atmosphere, being, in fact, mere 
preliminary and idle air. So two 
deer, in duel, go about and about, and 
even affect to look another way, till 
they are ripe for collision. There be 


28 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


writers would give the reader all the | 
preliminary puffs of articulated wind, | 
and every body would say, “ How 
clever! That is just the way girls 
really talk.” But I leave the glory of j 
photographing nullities to the geniuses 1 
of the age, and run to the first words 
which could, without impiety, be call- 
ed dialogue. 

“ Don’t you think his conduct a lit- 
tle mysterious ?” said Zoe, mal a propos 
of any thing that had been said hith- 
erto. 

“Well, yes; rather,” said Fanny, 
with marked carelessness. 

“ First, a sick friend ; then a bleed- 
ing at the nose ; and now he won’t 
drive to the lake with us. Arrears of 
correspondence ? Pooh ! ” 

Now, Fanny’s suspicions were deep- 
er than Zoe’s ; she had observed Sev- 
erne keenly : but it was not her cue 
to speak. She yawned, and said, 
“ What does it matter ?” 

“ Don’t be unkind, Fanny. It mat- 
ters to me.” 

“Not it. You have another ready.” 

“What other? There is no one 
that I — Fanny.” 

“Oh, nonsense! The man is evi- 
dently smitten, and you keep encour- 
aging him.” 

“No, I don’t; I am barely civil. 
And don’t be ill-natured. What can 
I do ?” 

“Why, be content with one at a 
time.” 

“It is very rude to talk so. Be- 
sides, I haven’t got one, much less two. 
I begin to doubt him ; and, Lord Ux- 
moor ! you know I can not possibly 
care for him — an acquaintance of yes- 
terday. ” 

“But you know all about him — 
that he is an excellent parti ,” said 
Fanny, with a pi-ovoking sneer. 

This was not to be borne. 

“ Oh ! ” said Zoe, “ I see ; you want 
him for yourself. It is you that are 
not content with one. You forget how 
poor Harrington would miss your at- 
tentions. He would begin to appreci- 
ate them — when he had lost them.” 


This stung, and Fanny turned white 
and red by turns. “ I deserve this,” 
said she, “for wasting advice on a co- 
*quette.” 

“ That is not true. I’m no co- 
quette ; and here I am, asking your 
advice, and you only snub me. You 
are a jealous, cross, unreasonable thing. ” 

“ Well, I’m not a hypocrite.” 

“ I never was called so before,” said 
Zoe, nobly and gently. 

“ Then you were not found out, that 
is all. You look so simple and ingen- 
uous, and blush if a man says half a 
word to you ; and all the time you are 
a greater flirt than I am.” 

“Oh, Fanny!” screamed Zoe, with 
I horror. 

It seems a repartee may be convey- 
ed in a scream ; for Fanny now lost 
I her temper altogether. “Your con- 
duct with those two men is abomina- 
ble,” said she. “I won’t speak to you 
any more.” 

‘ ‘ I beg you will not , in your pres- 
ent temper,” said Zoe, with unaffected 
| dignity, and rising like a Greek col- 
umn. 

Fanny flounced out of the room. 

Zoe sat down and sighed, and her 
glorious eyes were dimmed. Mystery 
! — doubt — and now a quarrel. What 
a day! At her age, a little cloud 
seems to darken the whole sky. 

Next morning the little party met 
| at breakfast. Lord Uxmoor, antici- 
I pating a delightful day, w r as in high 
spirits, and he and Fanny kept up the 
ball. She had resolved, in the silent 
watches of the night, to contest him 
with Zoe, and make every possible use 
of Severne, in the conflict. 

Zoe was silent and distraite , and 
did not even try to compete with her 
sparkling rival. But Lord Uxmoor’s 
eyes often wandered from his sprightly 
companion to Zoe. and it was plain he 
longed for a word from her mouth. 

Fanny observed, bit her lip, and 
tacked internally, “ ’bout ship,” as the 
sailors say. Her game now, conceived 
in a moment, and at once pu^t in exe- 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


cution, was to encourage Uxmoor’s at- 
tentions to Zoe. She began by open- 
ly courting Mr. Severne, to make Zoe 
talk to Uxrnoor, and also make him 
think that Severne and she were the 
lovers. 

Her intentions were to utilize the 
coming excursion : she would attach 
herself to Harrington, and so drive Zoe 
and Uxmoor together ; and then Lord 
Uxrnoor, at his present rate of amor- 
ous advance, would probably lead Zoe 
to a detached rock, and make her a 
serious declaration. This good, art- 
ful girl felt sure such a declaration, 
made a few months hence in Barford- 
shire, would be accepted, and herself 
left in the cold. Therefore she re- 
solved it should be made prematurely, 
and in Prussia, with Severne at hand, 
and so in all probability come to noth- 
ing. She even glimpsed a vista of 
consequences, and in that little avenue 
discerned the figure of Fanny Dover 
playing the part of consoler, friend, 
and ultimately spouse to a wealthy no- 
ble. 


CHAPTER Y. 

The letters were brought in ; one 
was to Vizard, from Herries, announ- 
cing a remittance; one to Lord Ux- 
moor. On reading it, he was surprised 
into an exclamation, and his face ex- 
pressed great concern. 

“ Oh!” said Zoe— •“ Harrington !” 

Harrington’s attention being thus 
drawn, he said, “No bad news, I 
hope ?” 

“ Yes, ’’said Uxmoor, in a low voice, 
“very bad. My oldest, truest, dear- 
est friend has been seized with small- 
pox, and his life is in danger. He has 
asked for me, poor fellow. This is 
from his sister. I must start by the 
twelve-o’clock train.” 

“Small -pox! Why, it is conta- 
gions,” cried Fanny; “and so disfig- 
uring!” 

“ I can’t help that,” said the honest 
fellow; and instantly rang the bell for 


29 

his servant, and gave the requisite or- 
ders. 

Zoe, whose eye had never left him 
all the time, said, softly, “ It is brave 
and good of you. We poor, emotion- 
al, cowardly girls should sit down and 
cry.” 

“ You would not, Miss Vizard,” 
said he, firmly, looking full at her. 
“If you think you would, you don’t 
know yourself. ” 

Zoe colored high, and was silent. 

Then Lord Uxmoor showed the true 
English gentleman. “I do hope,” 
said he, earnestly, though in a some- 
what broken voice, “that you will not 
let this spoil the pleasure we had plan- 
ned together. Harrington will be my 
deputy. ” 

“Well, I don’t know,” said Har- 
rington, sympathizingly. Mr. Severne 
remarked, “Such an occurrence puts 
pleasure out of one’s head.” This he 
said, with his eyes on his plate, like 
one repeating a lesson. “ Vizard, I 
entreat you,” said Uxmoor, almost 
vexed. “It will only make me more 
unhappy if you don’t.” 

“ We will go,” cried Zoe, earnestly ; 
“we promise to go. What does it 
matter? We shall think of you and 
your poor friend wherever we are. 
And I shall pray for him. But, ah, I 
know how little prayers avail to avert 
these cruel bereavements.” She was 
young, but old enough to have prayed 
hard for her sick mother’s life, and, 
like the rest of us, prayed in vain. At 
this remembrance the tears ran undis- 
guised down her cheeks. 

The open sympathy of one so young 
and beautiful, and withal rather re- 
served, made Lord Uxmoor gulp, and, 
not to break down before them all, he 
blurted out that he must go and pack : 
with this he hurried away. 

He was unhappy. Besides the ca- 
lamity he dreaded, it was grievous to 
be torn away from a woman he loved 
at first sight, and just when she had 
come out so worthy of his love : she 
was a high-minded creature ; she had 
been silent and reserved so long as the 


30 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


conversation was trivial; but, when 
trouble came, she was the one to speak 
to him bravely and kindly. Well, 
what must be, must. All this ran 
through his mind, and made him sigh ; 
but it never occurred to him to shirk 
— to telegraph instead of going — nor 
yet to value hirnself on his self-denial. 

They did not see him again till he 
was on the point of going, and then he 
took leave of them all, Zoe last. When 
he came to her, he ignored the others, 
except that he lowered his voice in 
speaking to her. “ God bless you for 
your kindness, Miss Vizard. It is a 
little hard upon a fellow to have to 
run away from such an acquaintance, 
just when I have been so fortunate 
as to make it.” 

“Oh, Lord Uxmoor,”said Zoe, in- 
nocently, “ never mind that. Why, 
we live in the same county, and we 
are on the way home. All I think of 
is your poor friend ; and do please tel- 
egraph — to Harrington.” 

He promised he would, and went 
away disappointed somehow at her 
last words. 

When he was gone, Severne went 
out on the balcony to smoke, and Har- 
rington held a council with the young 
ladies. “ Well, now,” said he, “about 
this trip to the lake.” 

“ I shall not go, for one,” said Zoe, 
resolutely. 

“ La !” said Fanny, looking carefully 
away from her to Harrington; “and 
she was the one that insisted.” 

Zoe ignored the speaker, and set her 
face stiffly toward Harrington. “ She 
only said that to him." 

Fanny. “ But, unfortunately, ears 
are not confined to the noble.” 

Zoe. “Nor tongues to the discreet.” 

Both these remarks were addressed 
pointedly to Harrington. 

“ Halloo !” said he, looking from 
one flaming girl to the other; “ am I 
to be a shuttlecock, and your discreet 
tongues the battledoors? What is 
up ?” 

“We don't speak,” said the frank 
Zoe ; “ that is up.” 


“Why, what is the row?” 

“No matter ” (stiffly). 

“No great matter, I’ll be bound. 
‘Toll, toll the bell.’ Here goes one 
more immortal friendship — quenched 
in eternal silence.” 

Both ladies bridled. Neither spoke. 

“And dead silence, as ladies under- 
stand it, consists in speaking at one 
another instead of to" 

No reply. 

“That is well-bred taciturnity.” 

No answer. 

“ The dignified reserve that distin- 
guishes an estrangement from a squab- 
ble.” 

No reply. 

“Well, I admire permanent senti- 
ments, good or bad ; constant resolves, 
etc. Your friendship has not proved 
immortal ; so now let us see how long 
you can hold spite — sieves !” Then 
he affected to start. ‘ ‘ What is this ? 
I spy a rational creature out on yon- 
der balcony. I hasten to join him. 
‘Birds of a feather,’ you know ;” and 
with that he went out to his favorite, 
and never looked behind him. 

The young ladies, indignant at the 
contempt the big man had presumed 
to cast upon the constant soul of wom- 
an, turned two red faces and four 
sparkling eyes to each other, with the 
instinctive sympathy of the jointly in- 
jured ; but remembering in time, turn- 
ed sharply round again, and presented 
napes, and so sat sullen. 

By -and -by a chilling thought fell 
upon them both at the same moment 
of time. The men were good friends 
as usual, safe, by sex, from tiffs, and 
could do without them ; and a dull 
day impended over the hostile fair. 

Thereupon the ingenious Fanny re- 
solved to make a splash of some sort, 
and disturb stagnation. She suddenly 
cried out, “La! and the man is gone 
away : so what is the use ?” This re- 
mark she was careful to level at bare 
space. 

Zoe, addressing the same person — • 
space, to wit — inquired of him if anjf 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


31 


body in his parts knew to whom this 
young lady was addressing herself. 

“ To a girl that is too sensible not 
to see the folly of quarreling about a 
man— when he is gone ,” said Fanny. 

“If it is me you mean,” said Zoe, 
stiffly, “ really I am surprised . You 
forget we are at daggers drawn.” 

“ No, I don’t, dear ; and parted for- 
ever.” 

Zoe smiled at that against her will. 

“ Zoe !” (penitentially). 

“ Frances !” (archly). 

u Come, cuddle me quick!” 

Zoe was all round her neck in a mo- 
ment, like a lace scarf, and there was 
violent kissing, with a tear or two. 

Then they put an arm round each 
other’s waist, and went all about the 
premises intertwined like snakes ; and 
Zoe gave Fanny her cameo brooch, 
the one with the pearls round it. 

The person to whom Vizard fled 
from the tongue of beauty was a de- 
lightful talker: he read two or three 
newspapers every day, and recollected 
the best things. * Now, it is not every 
body can remember a thousand dis- 
connected facts and recall them apro- 
pos. He was various, fluent, and, above 
all, superficial ; and such are your best 
conversers. They have something 
good and strictly ephemeral to say on 
every thing, and don’t know enough 
of any thing to impale their hearers. 
In mv youth there talked in Pall Mall 
a gentleman known as “ Conversation 
Sharpe.” He eclipsed every body. 
Even Macaulay paled. Sharpe talk- 
ed all the blessed afternoon, and grave 
men listened, enchanted ; and of all he 
said, nothing stuck. Where be now 
your Sharpiana? The learned may 
be compared to mines. These desul- 
tory charmers are more like the orna- 
mental cottage near Staines, forty or 
fifty rooms, and the whole structure 
one story high. The mine teems with 
solid wealth ; but you must grope and 
trouble to come to it: it is easier and 
pleasanter to run about the cottage with 
u lot of rooms all on the ground-floor. 


The mind and body both get into 
habits — sometimes apart, sometimes 
in conjunction. Nowadays we seat 
the body to work the intellect, even in 
its lower form of mechanical labor : it 
is your clod that toddles about labor- 
ing. The Peripatetics did not endure: 
their method was not suited to man’s 
microcosm. Bodily movements frit- 
ter mental attention. We sit at the 
feet of Gamaliel, or, as some call him, 
Tyndal ; and we sit to Bacon and 
Adam Smith. But, when we are 
standing or walking, we love to take 
brains easy. If this delightful chatter- 
box had been taken down, short-hand 
and printed, and Vizard had been set 
down to Severni Opuscula, ten volumes 
— and, mind you, Severne had talked 
all ten by this time — the Barfordshire 
squire and old Oxonian would have 
cried out for “ more matter with less 
art,” and perhaps have even fled for 
relief to some shorter treatise — Ba- 
con’s “Essays,” Browne’s “Religio 
Medici,” or Buckle’s “Civilization.” 
But lounging in a balcony, and lazily 
breathing a cloud, he could have list- 
ened all day to his desultory, delight- 
ful friend, overflowing with little ques- 
tions, little answers, little queries, lit- 
tle epigrams, little maxims a la Roche- 
foucauld , , little histories, little anec- 
dotes, little gossip, and little snap shots 
at every feather flying. 

“ Quicquid agnut homines, votum, timor, 
ira, voluptas, 

Gaudia, discursus, nostri farrago Se- 
verui.” 

But, alas ! after an hour of touch- 
and-go, of superficiality and soft de- 
light, the desultory charmer fell on a 
subject he had studied. So then he 
bored his companion for the first time 
in all the tour. 

But, to tell the honest truth, Mr. 
Severne had hitherto been pleasing 
his friend with a cold-blooded purpose. 
His preliminary gossip, that made the 
•time fly so agreeably, was intended to 
oil the way, to lubricate the passage 
of a premeditated pill. As soon as he 
J had got Vizard into perfect good hu- 


32 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


mor, be said, apropos of nothing that 
had passed, “By-the-bye, old fellow, 
that five hundred pounds you promised 
to lend me ! ” 

Vizard was startled by this sudden 
turn of a conversation, hitherto agree- 
able. 

“Why, you have had three hundred 
and lost it,” said he. “ Now, take 
my advice, and don’t lose any more. ” 

“I don’t mean to. But I am de- 
termined to win back the three hun- 
dred, and a great deal more, before I 
leave this. I have discovered a sys- 
tem, an infallible one.” 

“I am sorry to hear it,” said Har- 
rington, gravely. “That is the sec- 
ond step on the road to ruin ; the 
gambler with a system is the confirmed 
maniac. ” 

‘ ‘ What ! because other systems have 
been tried, and proved to be false? 
Mine is untried, and it is mere preju- 
dice to condemn it unheard.” 

“Propound it, then,” said Vizard. 
“Only please observe the bank has 
got its system ; you forget that : and 
the bank’s system is to take a positive 
advantage, which must win in the long 
run ; therefore, all counter - systems 
must lose in the long run.” 

“But the bank is tied to a long run, 
the individual player is not.” 

This reply checked Vizard for a 
moment, and the other followed up his 
advantage. “ Now, Vizard, be reason- 
able. What would the trifling advan- 
tage the bank derives from an incident, 
which occurs only once in twenty-eight 
deals, avail against a player who could 
foresee at any given deal whether the 
card that was going to come up the 
nearest thirty would be on the red or 
black ?” 

“No avail at all. God Almighty 
could break the bank every afternoon. 
Aprils ? as we say in France. Do you 
pretend to omniscience?” 

“Not exactly.” 

“ Well, but prescience of isolated 
events, preceded by no indicia , belongs 
only to omniscience. Did they not 
teach you that much at Oxford ?” 


“ They taught me very little at Ox. 
ford.” 

“Fault of the place, eh? You 
taught them something, though ; and 
the present conversation reminds me 
of it. In your second term, when ev- 
ery other man is still quizzed and kept 
down as a freshman, you were already 
a leader ; a chief of misrule. You 
founded a whist- club in Trinity, the 
primmest college of all. The Dons 
rooted you out in college ; but you did 
not succumb ; you fulfilled the saying 
of Sydney Smith, that ‘ Cribbage 
should be played in caverns, and six- 
penny - whist in the howling wilder- 
ness.’ Ha! ha! how well I remem- 
ber riding across Bullington Green one 
fine afternoon, and finding four Oxford 
hacks haltered in a row, and the four 
under-grad nates that had hired them 
on long tick, sitting cross-legged under 
the hedge like Turks or tailors, round 
a rude table with the legs sawed down 
to stumps. You had two packs, and 
a portable inkstand, and were so hard 
at it, that I put my mare’s nose right 
over the quartet before you saw either 
her or me. That hedge was like a 
drift of odoriferous snow with the haw- 
thorn bloom, and primroses sparkled 
on its bank like topazes. The birds 
chirruped, the sky smiled, the sun 
burned perfumes; and there sat my 
lord and his fellow - maniacs, snick- 
snack — pit-pat — cutting, dealing, play- 
ing, revoking, scoring, and exchang- 
ing I. O. U.’s not worth the paper.” 

“All true, but the revoking,” said 
Severne, merrily. “ Monster ! by the 
memory of those youthful days, I de- 
mand a fair hearing.” Then, grave- 
ly, “ Hang it all, Vizard, I am not a 
fellow that is always intruding his 
affairs and his theories upon other 
men.” 

“No, no, no,” said Vizard, hastily, 
and half apologetically ; “goon.” 

“Well, then, of course I don’t pre- 
tend to foreknowledge; but I do to 
experience, and you know experience 
teaches the wise.” 

“Not to fling five hundred after 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


83 


three. There — I beg pardon. Pro- 
ceed, instructor of youth.” 

“ Do listen, then : experience teach- 
es us that luck has its laws ; and I 
build my system on one of them. If 
two opposite accidents are sure to hap- 
pen equally often in a total of fifty 
times, people, who have not observed, 
expect them to happen turn about, 
and bet accordingly. But they don’t 
happen turn about; they make short 
runs, and sometimes long ones. They 
positively avoid alternation. Have 
you not observed this at trente et qua- 
rante t" 

“No.” 

“ Then you have not watched the 
cards. ” 

“Not much. The faces of the 
gamblers were always my study. 
They are instructive.” 

“ Well, then, I’ll give you an exam- 
ple outside — for the principle runs 
through all equal chances — take the 
university boat - race : you have kept 
your eye on that ?” 

“Rather. Never missed one yet. 
Come all the way from Barfordshire 
to see it.” 

“Well, there’s an example.” 

“Of chance? No, thank you. 
That goes by strength, skill, wind, en- 
durance, chaste living, self-denial, and 
judicious training. Every winning 
boat is manned by virtues.” His eye 
flashed, and he was as earnest all in a 
moment as he had been listless. A 
continental cynic had dubbed this in- 
sular cynic mad. 

The professor of chances smiled su- 
perior. “Those things decide each 
individual race, and the best men w'in, 
because it happens to be the only race 
that is never sold. But go farther 
back, and you find it is chance. It is 
pure chance that sends the best men 
up to Cambridge two or three years 
running, and then to Oxford. With 
this key, take the facts my system 
rests on. There are two. The first 
is that in thirty and odd races and 
matches, the university luck has come 
out equal on the river and at Lord’s : 

2 * 


the second is, the luck has seldom alter- 
nated. I don’t say, never. But look 
at the list of events ; it is published 
every March. You may see there the 
great truth that even chances shun di- 
rect alternation. In this, properly 
worked, lies a fortune at Homburg, 
where the play is square. Red gains 
once; you back red next time, and 
stop. You are on black, and win ; 
you double. This is the game, if you 
have only a few pounds. But with 
five hundred pounds you can double 
more courageously, and work the short 
run hard ; and that is how losses are 
averted, and gains secured. Once at 
Wiesbaden I caught a croupier, out on 
a holiday. It was Good-Friday, you 
know. I gave him a stunning dinner. 
He was close as wax, at first — that 
might be the salt fish ; but after the 
rognons a la brochette , and a bottle of 
Champagne, he let out. I remember 
one thing he said : ‘ Monsieur, ce que 
fait la fortune de la banque ce n’est 
pas le petit avantage qu’elle tire du re- 
fait — quoique cela y est pour quelque- 
chose — c’est la temerite de ceux qui 
perdent, et la timidite de ceux qui 
gagnent. ’ And, ” says Vizard, “ there 
is a French proverb founded on ear- 
perience — 

“ C’est encore rouge qui perd, 

Et encore noir, 

Mais toujours blanc qui gagne.’ ” 

Severne, for the first time, looked 
angry and mortified ; he turned his 
back, and was silent. Vizard looked 
at him uneasily, hesitated a moment, 
then flung the remainder of his cigar 
away, and seemed to rouse himself 
body and soul. He squared his shoul- 
ders, as if he were going to box the De- 
mon of play for his friend, and he let 
out good sense right and left, and, in- 
deed, was almost betrayed into elo- 
quence. “What!” he cried, “you, 
who are so bright and keen and know- 
ing in every thing else, are you really 
so blinded by egotism and credulity 
as to believe that you can invent any 
method of betting at rouge et noir 


34 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


that has not been tried before you 
were born ? Ho you remember the 
first word in La Bruyfere’s famous 
work ?” 

“No,” said Ned, sulkily. “Read 
nothing but newspapers.” 

“Good lad. Saves a deal of trou- 
ble. Well, he begins ‘ Tout est dit’ — 
‘ every thing has been said ;’ and I say 
that, in your business, ‘ Tout est fait’ — 
‘every thing has been done.’ Every 
move has been tried before you exist- 
ed, and the result of all is that to bet 
against the bank, wildly or systemat- 
ically, is to gamble against a rock. 
Si monumenta quceris, circumspice. 
Use your eyes, man. Look at the 
Kursaal, its luxuries, its gardens, its 
gilding, its attractions, all of them 
cheap, except the one that pays for all ; 
all these delights, and the rents, and 
the croupiers, and the servants, and 
the income and liveries of an unprinci- 
pled prince, who would otherwise be 
a poor but honest gentleman with one 
bonne , instead of thirty blazing lack- 
eys, all come from the gains of the 
bank, which are the losses of the play- 
ers, especially of those that have got a 
system. ” 

Severn e shot in, “A bank was 
broken last week.” 

“ Was it? Then all it lost has re- 
turned to it, or will return to it to- 
night ; for gamblers know no day of 
rest.” 

“ Oh yes, they do. It is shut on 
Good-Friday.” 

“You surprise me. Only three 
hundred and sixty -four days in the 
year ! Brainless avarice is more rea- 
sonable than I thought. Severne, 
yours is a very serious case. You 
have reduced your income, that is 
clear; for an English gentleman does 
not stay years and years abroad, unless 
he has outrun the constable ; and I 
feel sure gambling has done it. You 
had the fever from a boy. Bullington 
Green ! ‘As the twig’s bent the tree’s 
inclined.’ Come, come, make a stand. 
We are friends. Let us help one 
another against our besetting foibles. 


Let us practice antique wisdom ; let 
us ‘know ourselves,’ and leave Hom- 
burg to-morrow, instead of Tuesday.” 

Severne looked sullen, but said noth- 
ing ; then Vizard gave him too hastily 
credit for some of that sterling friend- 
ship, bordering on love, which warmed 
his own faithful breast: under this 
delusion he made an extraordinary 
effort ; he used an argument which, 
with himself, would have been irresist- 
ible. “Look here,” said he, “ I’ll — 
won’t you have a cigar? — there; now 
I’ll tell you something : I have a ma- 
nia as bad as yours ; only mine is in- 
termittent, thank Heaven ! I’m told a 
million women are as good, or better, 
than a million men. It may be so. 
But when I, an individual, stake my 
heart on lovely woman, she always 
turns out unworthy. With me, the 
sex avoids alternation. Therefore I 
rail on it wholesale. It is not philo- 
sophical ; but I don’t do it to instruct 
mankind ; it is to soothe my spleen. 
Well — would you believe it ? — once in 
every three years, in spite of my expe- 
rience, I am always bitten again. Aft- 
er my lucid interval has expired, I fall 
in with some woman, who seems not 
like the rest, but an angel. Then I, 
though I’m averse to the sex, fall an 
easy, an immediate victim to the indi- 
vidual.” 

“Love at first sight.” 

“ Not a bit of it. If she is as beau- 
tiful as an angel, with the voice of a 
peacock or a guinea-hen — and, luckily 
for me, that is a frequent arrangement 
— she is no more to me than the fire- 
shovel. If she has a sweet voice and 
pale eyes, I’m safe. Indeed, I am safe 
against Juno, Venus, and Minerva for 
two years and several months after the 
last; but when two events coincide, 
when my time is up, and the lovely, 
melodious female comes, then I am 
lost. Before I have seen her and 
heard her five minutes, I know my 
fate, and I never resist it. I nev- 
er can ; that is a curious part of the 
mania. Then commences a little 
drama, all the acts of which are stale 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


35 


copies ; yet each time they take me by 
surprise, as if they were new. In spite 
of past experience, I begin all confi- 
dence and trust : by-and-by come the 
subtle but well-known signs of deceit ; 
so doubt is forced on me ; and then I 
am all suspicion, and so darkly vigi- 
lant that soon all is certainty ; for ‘ les 
fourberies des femmes ’ are diabolically 
subtle, but monotonous. They seem 
to vary only on the surface. One 
looks too gentle and sweet to give any 
creature pain ; I cherish her like a 
tender plant ; she deceives me for the 
coarsest fellow she can find. Another 
comes the frank and candid dodge ; 
she is so off-handed, she shows me it 
is not worth her while to betray. She 
deceives me, like the other, and with 
as little discrimination. The next has 
a face of beaming innocence, and a 
limpid eye that looks like transparent 
candor ; she gazes long and calmly in 
my face, as if her eye loved to dwell 
on me, gazes with the eye of a gazelle 
or a yonng hare, and the baby lips be- 
low outlie the hoariest male fox in the 
Old Jewry. But, to complete the delu- 
sion, all my sweethearts and wives are 
romantic and poetical skin-deep — or 
they would not attract me — and all 
turn out vulgar to the core. By their 
lovers alone can you ever know them. 
By the men they can't love, and the 
men they do love, you find these creat- 
ures that imitate sentiment so divinely 
are hard, prosaic, vulgar little things, 
thinly gilt and double varnished. ” 

“They are much better than we 
£tre ; but you don’t know how to take 
them,” said Severne, with the calm su- 
periority of success. 

“ No, ’’replied Vizard, dryly, “curse 
me if I do. Well, I did "hope I had 
outgrown my mania, as I have done 
the toothache; for this time I had 
passed the fatal period, the three years. 
It is nearly four years now since I went 
through the established process — as 
fixed beforehand as the dyer’s or the 
cotton -weaver’s — adored her, trusted 
her blindly, suspected her, watched 
her, detected her, left her. By-the- 


bye, she was my wife, the last ; but 
that made no difference ; she was nei- 
ther better nor worse than the rest, and 
her methods and idiotic motives of de- 
ceit identical. Well, Ned, I was mis- 
taken. Yesterday night I met my 
Fate once more.” 

“Where? In Frankfort ?” 

“No: at Homburg; at the opera. 
You must give me your word not to 
tell a soul.” 

“ I pledge you my word of honor.” 

“ Well, the lady who sung the part 
of Siebel.” 

“ Siebel?” muttered Severne. 

“Yes,” said Vizard, dejectedly. 

Severne fixed his eyes on his friend 
with a strange expression of confusion 
and curiosity, as if he could not take 
it all in. But he said nothing, only 
looked very hard all the time. 

Vizard burst out, “ ‘O miserae homi- 
num mentes, o pectora caeca!’ There 
I sat, in the stalls, a happy man com- 
paratively, because my heart, though 
full of scars, was at peace, and my rea- 
son, after periodical abdications, had 
resumed its throne, for good ; so I, 
weak mortal, fancied. Siebel appear- 
ed ; tall, easy, dignified, and walking 
like a wave ; modest, fair, noble, great, 
dreamy, and, above all, divinely sad ; 
the soul of womanhood and music 
poured from her honey lips ; she con- 
quered all my senses : I felt something 
like a bolt of ice run down my back. 
I ought to have jumped up, and fled 
the theatre. I wish I had. But I nev- 
er do. I am incurable. The charm 
deepened ; and when she had sung 
‘Le Parlate d’Amor’ as no mortal 
ever sung and looked it, she left the 
stage, and carried my heart and soul 
away with her. What chance had I ? 
Here shone all the beauties that adorn 
the body, all the virtues and graces 
that embellish the soul ; they were 
wedded to poetry and ravishing mu- 
sic, and gave and took enchantment. 
I saw my paragon glide away, like a 
goddess, past the scenery, and I did 
not see her meet her lover at the next 
step — a fellow with a wash-leather 


36 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


face, greasy locks in a sausage roll, and 
his hair graved off his forehead — and 
snatch a pot of porter from his hands, 
and drain it to the dregs, and say, ‘ It 
is all right, Harry : that fetched ’em. ’ 
But I know, by experience, she did ; 
so sauve qui peut. Dear frien d and fel- 
low-lunatic, for my sake and yours, 
leave Frankfort with me to-morrow.” 

Severne hung his head, and thought 
hard. Here was a new and wonder- 
ful turn. He felt all manner of strange 
things — a pang of jealousy, for one. 
He felt that, on every account, it would 
be wise to go, and, indeed, dangerous 
to stay. But a mania is a mania, and 
so he could not. ‘ ‘ Look here, old fel- 
low,” he said, “if the opera were on 
to-morrow, I would leave my three 
hundred behind me, and sacrifice my- 
self to you, sooner than expose you to 
the fascinations of so captivating a 
woman as Ina Klosking.” 

‘ ‘ Ina Klosking ? Is that her name ? 
How do you know ?” 

“I — I — fancy I heard so.” 

‘ ‘ Why, she was not announced. Ina 
Klosking ! It is a sweet name and 
he sighed. 

“ But you are quite safe from her for 
one day,” continued Severne, “ so you 
must be reasonable. I will go with 
you, Tuesday, as early as you like ; 
but do be a good fellow, and let me 
have the five hundred, to try my sys- 
tem with to-morrow.” 

Vizard looked sad, and made no re- 
ply. 

Severne got impatient. “Why, 
what is it to a rich fellow like you ? 
If I had twelve thousand acres in a 
ring fence, no friend would ask me 
twice for such a trifling sum.” 

Vizard, for the first time, wore a 
supercilious smile at being so mis- 
understood, and did not deign a re- 
ply* 

Severne went on mistaking his man : 
“I can give you bills for the money, 
and for the three hundred you did lend 
me.” 

Vizard did not receive this as ex- 
pected. “Bills?” said he, gravely. 


“What, do you do that sort of thing 
as well ?” 

“ Why not, pray? So long as I’m 
the holder, not the drawer, nor the ac- 
ceptor. Besides, they are not accom- 
modation bills, but good commercial 
paper. ” 

“You are a merchant, then; are 
you?” 

“ Yes ; in a small way. If you will 
allow me, I will explain.” 

He did so ; and, to save comments, 
yet enable the reader to appreciate his 
explanation, the true part of it is print- 
ed in italics, the mendacious portion 
in ordinary type. 

“ My estate in Huntingdonshire is 
not very large ; and there are mort- 
gages on it , for the benefit of other 
members of my family. I was always 
desirous to pay off these mortgages ; 
and took the best advice I could. I 
have got an uncle: he lives in the City. 
He put me on to a good thing. I 
bought a share in a trading vessel ; 
she makes short trips, and turns her 
cargo often. She will take out paper 
to America, and bring back raw cot- 
ton : she will land that at Liverpool, 
and ship English hardware and cotton 
fabrics for the Mediterranean and 
Greece, and bring back currants from 
Zante and lemons from Portugal. 
She goes for the nimble shilling. 
Well, you know ships wear out : and 
if you varnish them rotten , and in- 
sure them high , and they go to glory , 
Mr. Plimsoll is down on you like a 
hammer. So, when she had paid my 
purchase -money three times over, 
some fellows in the City made an offer 
for The Rovei — that was her name. 
My share came to twelve hundred, and 
my uncle said I was to take it. Now, 
I always feel hound by what he decides. 
They gave me four bills, for four hun- 
dred, three hundred, three hundred, 
and two hundred. The four hundred 
was paid at maturity. The others are 
not due yet. I have only to send them 
to London, and I can get the money 
back by Thursday : but you want me 
to start on Tuesday.” 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


37 


“That is enough,” said Vizard, 
wearily, “ I will be your banker, and — ” 

‘ ‘ You are a good fellow ! ” said Sev- 
erne, warmly. 

“No, no ; I am a weak fellow, and 
an injudicious one. But it is the old 
story : when a friend asks you what 
he thinks a favor, the right thing is to 
grant it at once. He doesn’t want 
your advice; he wants the one thing 
he asks for. There, get me the bills, 
and I’ll draw a check on Muller : Her- 
lies advised him by Saturday’s post ; 
so we can draw on Monday.” 

“ All right, old man,” said Severne, 
and went away briskly for the bills. 

When he got from the balcony into 
the room, his steps flagged a little ; it 
struck him that ink takes time to dry, 
and more time to darken. 

As The Rover , with her nimble car- 
goes, was first cousin to The Flying 
Dutchman , with his crew of ghosts, so 
the bills received by Severne, as pur- 
chase-money for his ship, necessarily 
partook of that ship’s aerial character. 
Indeed they existed, as the school- men 
used to say, in posse , but not in esse. 
To be less pedantic and more exact, 
they existed as slips of blank paper, 
with a Government stamp. To give 
them a mercantile character for a time 
— viz., until presented for payment — 
they must be drawn by an imaginary 
ship T owner or a visionary merchant, 
and indorsed by at least one shadow, 
and a man of straw. 

The man of straw sat down to in- 
scribe self and shadows, and became a 
dishonest writer of fiction ; for the art 
he now commenced appears to fall 
short of forgery proper, but to be still 
more distinct from justifiable fiction. 
The ingenious Mr. De Foe’s certificate 
by an aerial justice of the peace to the 
truth of his ghostly narrative comes 
nearest to it, in my poor reading. 

Qualms he had, but not deep. If 
the bills were drawn by Imagination, 
accepted by Fancy, and indorsed by 
Impudence, what did it matter to Ned 
Straw, since his system would enable 
him to redeem them at maturity ? Ilis 


only real concern was to conceal their 
recent origin. So he wrote them with 
a broad-nibbed pen, that they might 
be the blacker, and set them to dry in 
the sun. 

He then proceeded to a change of 
toilet. 

While thus employed, there was a 
sharp tap at his door, and Vizard’s 
voice outside. Severne started with 
terror, snapped up the three bills with 
the dexterity of a conjurer — the han- 
dle turned — he shoved them into a 
drawer — Vizard came in — he shut the 
drawer, and panted. 

Vizard had followed the custom of 
Oxonians among themselves, which is 
to knock, and then come in, unless for- 
bidden. 

“Come, ’’said he, cheerfully, “those 
bills : I’m in a hurry to cash them now, 
and end the only difference we have 
ever had, old fellow.” 

The blood left Severne’s cheek and 
lips for a moment, and he thought 
swiftly and hard. The blood return- 
ed, along with his ready wit. “ How 
good you are ! ” said he : “ but no. It 
is Sunday.” 

“Sunday!” ejaculated Vizard. 
“What is that to you, a fellow who 
has been years abroad ?” 

“I can’t help it,” said Severne, 
apologetically. “I am superstitious 
— don't like to do business on a Sun- 
day. I would not even shunt at the 
tables on a Sunday — I don’t think.” 

“Ah, you are not quite sure of that. 
There is a limit to your superstition ! 
Well, will you listen to a story on a 
Sunday ?” 

“Rather!” 

“ Then, once on a time there was a 
Scotch farmer, who had a bonny cow; 
and another farmer coveted her hon- 
estly. One Sunday they went home 
together from kirk, and there was the 
cow grazing. Farmer Two stopped, 
eyed her, and said to Farmer One, 

‘ Gien it were Monday, as it is the Sab- 
ba’ day, what would ye tak’ for your 
coow ?’ The other said the price would 
be nine pounds, if it were Monday 


38 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


And so they kept the Sabbath; and 
the cow changed hands, though, to the 
naked eye, she grazed on in situ. Our 
negotiation is just as complete. So 
what does it matter whether the act- 
ual exchange of bills and cash takes 
place to-day or to-morrow ?” 

“ Do you really mean to say it does 
not matter to you ?” asked Severne. 

“ Not one straw.” 

“Then, as it does not matter to 
you, and does to me, give me my fool- 
ish way, like a dear good fellow.” 

“Now, that is smart,” said Vizard 
— “very smart;” then, with a look of 
parental admiration, “ he gets his own 
way in every thing. He will have 
your money — he won't have your 
money. I wonder whether he will 
consent to walk those girls out, and 
disburden me of their too profitable 
discourse.” 

“That I will, with pleasure.” 

“Well, they are at luncheon — with 
their bonnets on.” 

“ I will join them in five minutes.” 

After luncheon, Miss Vizard, Miss 
Dover, and Mr. Severne started for a 
stroll. 

Miss Maitland suggested that Viz- 
ard should accompany them. 

“ Couldn't think of deserting you,” 
said he, dryly. 

The young ladies giggled, because 
these two rarely opened their mouths 
to agree, one being a professed wom- 
an-hater, and the other a man-hater, 
in words. 

Says Misander, in a sourish way, 
“ Since you value my conversation so, 
perhaps you will be good enough not 
to smoke for the next ten minutes.” 

Misogyn consented, but sighed. 
That sigh went unpitied, and the lady 
wasted no time. 

“Do you see what is going on be- 
tween your sister and that young 
man ?” 

“Yes; a little flirtation.” 

“A great deal more than that. I 
caught them, in this very room, mak- 
ing love.” 


“You alarm me,” said Vizard* 
with marked tranquillity. 

“ I saw him — kiss — her — hand.” 

“You relieve me,” said Vizard, 
as calmly as he had been alarmed. 
“There’s no harm in that. I’ve kiss- 
ed the queen’s hand, and the nation 
did not rise upon me. However, I 
object to it. The superior sex should 
not play the spaniel. I will tell him 
to drop that. But, permit me to say, 
all this is in your department, not 
mine.” 

“ But what can I do against three 
of them, unless you support me? 
There you have let them go out to- 
gether.” 

“Together with Fanny Dover, you 
mean ?” 

“Yes; and if Fanny had any de- 
signs on him, Zoe would be safe — ” 

“And poor Ned torn in two.” 

“ But Fanny, I am grieved to say, 
seems inclined to assist this young 
man with Zoe ; that is, because it 
does not matter to her. She has oth- 
er views — serious ones.” 

“Serious! What? A nunnery? 
Then I pity my lady abbess.” 

“ Her views are plain enough to 
any body but you.” 

“Are they? Then make me as 
wise as my neighbors.” 

“ Well, then, she means to marry 
you. ” 

“ What ! Oh, come ! — that is too 
good a joke !” 

“It is sober earnest. Ask Zoe — 
ask your friend, Mr. Severne — ask 
the chamber-maids — ask any creat- 
ure with an eye in its head. Oh, the 
blindness of you men !” 

The Misogyn was struck dumb. 
When he recovered, it was to repine 
at the lot of man. 

“Even my own familiar cousin — 
once removed — in whom I trusted ! 
I depute you to inform her that I 
think her adorable , and that matri- 
mony is no longer a habit of mine. 
Set her on to poor Severne ; he is a 
ladies’ man, and ‘ the more the mer- 
rier ’ is his creed. ” 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


39 


“Such a girl as Fanny is not to be 
diverted from a purpose of that sort. 
Besides, she has too much sense to 
plunge into the Severne and — pauper- 
ism ! She is bent on a rich husband, 
not a needy adventurer.” 

“Madam, in my friend’s name, I 
thank you.” 

“ You are very welcome, sir — it is 
only the truth.” Then, with a swift 
return to her original topic: “No; 
I know perfectly well what Fanny 
Dover will do this afternoon. She 
sketches.” 

“ It is too true,” said Vizard, dole- 
fully : “showed me a ship in full 
sail, and I praised it in my way. I 
6aid, ‘ That rock is rather well done.’ ” 

“Well, she will be seized with a 
desire to sketch. She will sit down 
apart, and say, ‘ Please don’t watch 
me — it makes me nervous.’ The oth- 
er two will take the hint, and make 
love a good way off ; and Zoe will go 
greater lengths, with another woman 
in sight — but only just in sight, and sly- 
ly encouraging her — than if she were 
quite alone with her mauvais sujet." 

Vizard was pleased with the old 
lady. 

“ This is sagacious,” said he, “and 
shows an eye for detail. I recognize 
in your picture the foxy sex. But, 
at this moment, who can foretell 
which way the wind will blow ? You 
are not aware, perhaps, that Zoe and 
Fanny have had a quarrel. They 
don’t speak. Now, in women, you 
know, vices are controlled by vices — 
see Pope. The conspiracy you dread 
will be averted by the other faults 
of their character, their jealousy and 
their petulant tempers. Take my 
word for it, they are sparring at this 
moment : and that poor, silly Severne 
meditating and moderating, and get- 
ting scratched on both sides for try- 
ing to be just.” 

At this moment the door opened, 
and Fanny Dover glittered on the 
threshold in Cambridge blue. 

“There,” said Vizard; “did not 
I tell you ? They are come home.” 


“Only me,” said Fanny, gayly. 

“Where are the others?” inquired 
Miss Maitland, sharply. 

“Not far off — only by the river- 
side.” 

“And you left those two alone !” 

“Now, don’t be cross, aunt,” cried 
Fanny, and limped up to her. ‘ ‘ These 
new boots are so tight that I real- 
ly couldn’t bear them any longer. I 
believe I shall be lame, as it is.” 

“You ought to be ashamed of 
yourself. What will the people say?” 

“La ! aunt, it is abroad. One does 
what one likes — out of England.” 

“Here’s a code of morals!” said 
Vizard, who must have his slap. 

“Nonsense,” said Miss Maitland; 
“she will be sure to meet somebody. 
All England is on the Rhine at this 
time of the year ; and, whether or 
no, is it for you to expose that child 
to familiarity with a person nobody 
knows, nor his family either? You 
are twenty -five years old; you know 
the world ; you have as poor an opin- 
ion of the man as I have, or you 
would have set your own cap at him 
— you know you would — and you have 
let out things to me when you were 
off your guard. Fanny Dover, you 
are behaving wickedly ; you are a false 
friend to that poor girl.” 

Upon this, Io! the pert Fanny, 
hitherto so ready with her answers, 
began to cry bitterly. The words real- 
ly pricked her conscience, and to be 
scolded is one thing, to be severely 
and solemnly reproached is another ; 
and before a man ! 

The official woman-hater was melt- 
ed in a moment by the saucy girl’s 
tears. ‘ ‘ There — there, ” said he, kind- 
ly, “ have a little mercy. Hang it all ! 
Don’t make a mountain of a mole- 
hill.” 

The official man-hater never moved 
a muscle. “It is no use her crying 
to me : she must give me a proof she 
is sorry. Fanny, if you are a respect- 
able girl, and have any idea of being 
my heir, go you this moment and 
bring them home.” 


40 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


“Yes, aunt,” said Fanny, eagerly; 
and went off with wonderful alacrity. 

It was a very long apartment, full 
forty feet ; and while Fanny bustled 
down it, Miss Maitland extended a 
skinny finger, like one of Macbeth’s 
witches, and directed Vizard’s eye to 
the receding figure so pointedly, that 
he put up his spy -glass the better to 
see the phenomenon. 

As Fanny skipped out and closed 
the door, Miss Maitland turned to 
Vizard, with lean finger still pointing 
after Fanny, and uttered a monosyl- 
lable, 

“Lamb!” 

Vizard burst out laughing. “La 
fourbe!” said he. “Miss Maitland, 
accept my compliments ; you possess 
the key to a sex no fellow can un- 
lock. And, now I have found an in- 
terpreter, I begin to be interested in 
this little comedy. The first act is 
just over. There will be half an 
hour’s wait till the simulatrix of in- 
firmity comes running back with the 
pilgrims of the Rhine. Are they ‘ the 
pilgrims of the Rhine ’ or ‘ the pilgrims 
of Love?’ Time will show. Play to 
recommence with a verbal encounter ; 
you will be one against three ; for all 
that, I don’t envy the greater num- 
ber.” 

“Three to one? No. Surely you 
will he on the right side for once.” 

“Well, you see, I am the audience. 
We can’t be all dramatis personce , 
and no spectator. During the wait, 
I wonder whether the audience, hav- 
ing nothing better to do, may be per- 
mitted to smoke a cigar.” 

“So long a lucid interval is irk- 
some, of course. Well, the balcony 
is your smoking-room. You will see 
them coming ; please tap at my door 
the moment you do.” 

Half an hour elapsed, an hour, and 
the personages required to continue 
the comedy did not return. 

Vizard, having nothing better to 
do, fell to thinking of Ina Klosking, 
and that was not good for him. Soli- 
tude and ennui fed his mania, and at 


last it took the form of action. He 
rang, and ordered up his man Harris, 
a close, discreet personage, and direct- 
ed him to go over to Homburg, and 
bring back all the information he 
could about the new singer; her ad- 
dress in Homburg, married or single, 
prude or coquette. Should informa- 
tion be withheld, Harris was to fee 
the porter at the opera-house, the 
waiter at her hotel, and all the hu- 
man commodities that knew any 
thing about her. 

Having dismissed Harris, he light- 
ed his seventh cigar, and said to him- 
self, “It is all Ned Severne’s fault. 
I wanted to leave for England to- 
day.” 

The day had been overcast for 
some time, and now a few big drops 
fell, by way of warning. Then it 
turned cool: then came a light driz- 
zling rain, and, in the middle of this, 
Fanny Dover appeared, almost flying 
home. 

Vizard went and tapped at Miss 
Maitland’s door. She came out. 

“ Here’s Miss Dover coming, but 
she is alone.” 

The next moment Fanny bounced 
into the room, and started a little at 
the picture of the pair ready to receive 
her. She did not wait to be taken to 
task, but proceeded to avert censure 
by volubility and self-praise. “Aunt, 
I went down to the river, where I left 
them, and looked all along it, and they 
were not in sight. Then I went to 
the cathedral, because that seemed the 
next likeliest place. Oh, I have had 
such a race!” 

“Why did you come back before 
you had found them ?” 

“Aunt, it was going to rain; and 
it is raining now, hard.” 

“ She does not mind that.” 

“Zoe? Oh, she has got nothing 
on!” 

‘ ‘ Bless me ! ” cried Vizard. “ Go- 
diva rediviva .” 

“ Now, Harrington, don’t ! Of 
course, I mean nothing to spoil ; only 
her purple alpaca, and that is two 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


years old. But my blue silk, I can’t 
afford to ruin it. Nobody would give 
me another, I know.” 

‘ ‘ What a heartless world ! ” said Viz- 
ard, dryly. 

“ It is past a jest, the whole thing,” 
objected Miss Maitland; “and, now 
we are together, please tell me, if you 
can, either of you, who is this man ? 
What are his means? I know ‘The 
Peerage,’ ‘The Baronetage,’ and ‘ The 
Landed Gentry,’ but not Severn e. 
That is a river, not a family.” 

“ Oh,” said Vizard, “ family names 
taken from rivers are never parvenues. 
But we can’t all be down in Burke. 
Ned is of a good stock, the old En- 
glish yeoman, the country’s pride.” 

“Yeoman!” said the Maitland, 
with sovereign contempt. 

Vizard resisted. “ Is this the place 
to sneer at an English yeoman, where 
you see an unprincely prince living by 
a gambling- table ? What says the old 
stave ? 

“ ‘ A German prince, a marquis of France, 
And a laird o’ the North Countrie ; 

A yeoman o’ Kent, with his yearly rent, 
Would ding ’em out, all three.’ ” 

“ Then,” said Misander, with a good 
deal of malicious intent, “you are 
quite sure your yeoman is not a — pau- 
per — an adventurer — ” 

“Positive.” 

“ And a gambler .” 

“No ; I am not at all sure of that. 
But nobody is all- wise. I am not, for 
one. He is a fine fellow ; as good as 
gold ; as true as steel. Always polite, 
always genial ; and never speaks ill of 
any of you behind your backs.” 

Miss Maitland bridled at that. 
“What I have said is not out of dis- 
like to the young man. I am warn- 
ing a brother to take a little more care 
of his sister, that is all. However, 
after your sneer, I shall say no more 
behind Mr. Severne’s back, but to his 
face — that is, if we ever see his face 
again, or Zoe’s either.” 

“ Oh, aunt !” said Fanny, reproach- 
fully. “ It is only the rain. La! poor 


41 

things, they will be wet to the skin. 
Just see how it is pouring!” 

‘ ‘ That it is : and let me tell you there 
is nothing so dangerous as a tete-a-tete 
in the rain.” 

“A thunder-storm is worse, aunt,” 
said Fanny, eagerly, “ because then 
she is frightened to death, and clings 
to him — if he is nice.” 

Having galloped into this revela- 
tion, through speaking first and think- 
ing afterward, Fanny pulled up short 
the moment the words were out, and 
turned red, and looked askant, under 
her pale lashes, at Vizard. Observ- 
ing several twinkles in his eyes, she 
got up hastily, and said she really 
must go and dry her gown. 

“Yes, ’’said Miss Maitland; “come 
into my room, dear. ” 

Fanny complied, with rather a rue- 
ful face, not doubting that the public 
‘ ‘ dear ” was to get it rather hot in 
private. 

Her uneasiness was not lessened 
when the old maid said to her, grimly, 
“Now, sit you down there, and never 
mind your dress.” 

However, it came rather mildly, 
after all. ‘ ‘ Fanny, you are not a bad 
girl, and you have shown you were 
sorry ; so I am not going to be hard 
on you : -only you must be a good girl 
now, and help me to undo the mis- 
chief, and then I will forgive you.” 

“Aunt,” said Fanny, piteously, “I 
am older than she is, and I know I 
have done rather wrong, and I won’t 
do it any more ; but pray, pray, don’t 
ask me to be unkind to her to-day ; it 
is brooch-day.” 

Miss Maitland only stared at this 
obscure announcement : so Fanny had 
to explain that Zoe and she had tiffed, 
and made it up, and Zoe had given 
her a brooch. Hereupon she went 
for it, and both ladies forgot the topic 
they were on, and every other, to ex- 
amine the brooch. 

“Aunt,” says Fanny, handling the 
brooch, and eying it, “you were a 
poor girl, like me, before grandpapa 
left you the money, and you know it 


42 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


is just as well to have a tiff now and 
then with a rich one, because, when 
you kiss and make it up, you always 
get some reconciliation-tiling or oth- 
er.” 

Miss Maitland dived into the past 
and nodded approval. 

Thus encouraged, Fanny pi’oceeded 
to more modern rules. She let Miss 
Maitland know it was always under- 
stood at her school that on these occa- 
sions of tiff, reconciliation, and pres- 
ent, the girl who received the pres- 
ent was to side in every thing with 
the girl who gave it, for that one day. 
“ That is the real reason I put on my 
tight boots — to earn my brooch. Isn’t 
it a duck ?” 

“Are they tight, then?” 

“Awfully. See — new on to-day.” 

“But you could shake off your 
lameness in a moment.” 

“ La, aunt, you know one can fight 
with that sort of thing, or fight against 
it. It is like colds, and headaches, 
and fevers, and all that. You are in 
bed, too ill to see any body you don’t 
much care for. Night comes, and 
then you jump up and dress, and go 
to a ball, and leave your cold and 
your fever behind you, because the 
ball won’t wait till you are well, and 
the bores will. So don’t ask me to be 
unkind to Zoe, brooch-day,” said Fan- 
ny, skipping back to her first position 
with singular pertinacity. 

“ Now, Fanny,” said Miss Maitland, 
“who wants you to be unkind to her ? 
But you must and shall promise me 
not to lend her any more downright 
encouragement, and to watch the man 
well.” 

“I promise that faithfully,” said 
Fanny — an adroit concession, since 
she had been watching him like a cat 
a mouse Tor many days. 

“Then you are a good girl; and, 
to reward you, I will tell you in con- 
fidence all the strange stories I have 
discovered to-day.” 

“ Oh, do, aunt !” cried Fanny ; and 
now her eyes began to sparkle with 
curiosity. 


Miss Maitland then bid her ob- 
serve that the bedroom window was 
not a French casement, but a double- 
sash window — closed at present be- 
cause of the rain ; but it had been 
wide open at the top all the time. 

“ Those two were smoking, and 
talking secrets; and, child,” said the 
old lady, very impressively, “if yon 
— want — to — know — what gentlemen 
really are, you must be out of sight, 
and listen to them, smoking. When 
I was a girl, the gentlemen came out 
in their true colors over their wine. 
Now they are as close as wax, drink- 
ing ; and even when they are tipsy 
they keep their secrets. But once let 
them get by themselves and smoke, 
the very air is soon filled with scanda- 
lous secrets none of the ladies in the 
house ever dreamed of. Their real 
characters, their true histories, and 
their genuine sentiments, are locked 
up like that genius in ‘ The Arabian 
Nights,’ and come out in smoke as he 
did.” The old lady chuckled at her 
own wit, and the young one laughed 
to humor her. “Well, my dear, 
those two smoked, and revealed them- 
selves — their real selves ; and I listen- 
ed and heard every word on the top 
of those drawers.” 

Fanny looked at the drawers. 
They were high. 

“La, aunt! however did you get 
up there ?” 

“By a chair.” 

“Oh, fancy you perched up there, 
listening, at your age!” 

“You need not keep throwing my 
age in my teeth. I am not so very 
old. Only I don’t paint and whiten 
and wear false hair. There are plen- 
ty of coquettes about, ever so much 
older than I am. I have a great 
mind not to tell you ; and then much 
you will ever know about either of 
these men ! ” 

“Oh, aunt, don’t be cruel! I am 
dying to hear it.” 

As aunt was equally dying to tell 
it, she passed over the skit upon her 
age, though she did not forget not 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


43 


forgive it ; and repeated the whole 
conversation of Vizard and Severne 
with rare fidelity ; but, as I abhor 
what the evangelist calls “battolo- 
gy,” and Shakspeare ‘‘damnable iter- 
ation,” I must draw upon the intelli- 
gence of the reader (if any), and he 
must be pleased to imagine the whole 
dialogue of those two unguarded 
smokers repeated to Fanny, and in- 
terrupted, commented on at every sa- 
lient point, scrutinized, sifted, dissect- 
ed, and taken to pieces by two keen 
women, sharp by nature, and sharper 
now by collision of their heads. No 
candor, no tolerance, no allowance for 
human weakness, blunted the scalpel 
in their dexterous hands. 

Oh, Gossip ! delight of ordinary 
souls, and more delightful still when 
you furnish food for detraction ! ! ! 

To Fanny, in particular, it was ex- 
citing, ravishing, and the time flew 
by so unheeded that presently there 
came a sharp knock, and an impa- 
tient voice cried, “ Chatter! chatter! 
chatter! How long are we to be 
kept waiting for dinner, all of us ?” 


CHAPTER VI. 

At the very commencement of the 
confabulation, so barbarously inter- 
rupted before it had lasted two hours 
and a half, the Misogyn rang the bell, 
and asked for Rosa, Zoe’s maid. 

She came, and he ordered her to 
have up a basket of wood, and light 
a roaring fire in her mistress's room, 
and put out garments to air. He 
also inquired the number of Zoe’s 
bedroom. The girl said it was “No. 
74.” 

The Misogyn waited half an hour, 
and then visited “No. 74.” He found 
the fire burned down to one log, and 
some things airing at the fire, as do- 
mestics air their employers’ things, 
but not their own, you may be sure. 
There was a chemise carefully folded 
into the smallest possible compass, 


and doubled over a horse at a good 
distance from the cold fire. There 
were other garments and supplement- 
aries, all treated in the same way. 

The Misogyn looked, and remarked 
ed as follows, “ Idiots ! at every thing 
but taking in the men.” 

Having relieved his spleen with this 
courteous and comprehensive observa- 
tion, he piled log upon log till the fire 
was half up the chimney. Then he 
got all the chairs, and made a semi- 
circle, and spread out the various gar- 
ments to the genial heat ; and so close 
that, had a spark flown, they would 
have been warmed with a vengeance, 
and the superiority of the male intel- 
lect demonstrated. This done, he re- 
tired, with a guilty air ; for he did not 
want to be caught meddling in such 
frivolities by Miss Dover or Miss 
Maitland. However, he was quite 
safe ; those superior spirits were 
wholly occupied with the loftier things 
of the mind, especially the characters 
of their neighbors. 

I must now go for these truants 
that are giving every body so much 
trouble. 

When Fanny fell lame, and said 
she was very sorry, but she must go 
home and change her boots, Zoe was 
for going home too. But Fanny, 
doubting her sincerity, was perempto- 
ry, and said they had only to stroll 
slowly on, and then turn ; she should 
meet them coming back. Zoe color- 
ed high, suspecting they had seen the 
last of this ingenious young lady. 

“What a good girl!” cried Sev- 
erne. 

“ I am afraid she is a very naughty 
girl,” said Zoe, faintly; and the first 
effect of Fanny’s retreat was to make 
her a great deal more reserved and 
less sprightly. 

Severne observed, and understood, 
and saw he must give her time. He 
was so respectful, as well as tender, 
that, by degrees, she came out again, 
and beamed with youth and happiness. 

They strolled very slowly by the 
fair river, and the pretty little noth- 


44 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


ings they said to each other began to 
be mere vehicles for those soft tones 
and looks, in which love is made, far 
more than by the words themselves. 

When they started on this walk, 
Severne had no distinct nor serious 
views on Zoe. But he had been play- 
ing with fire for some time, and so 
now he got well burned. 

Walking slowly by his side, and 
conscious of being wooed, whatever 
the words might be, Zoe was loveli- 
er than ever. Those lowered lashes, 
that mantling cheek, those soft, ten- 
der murmurs, told him he was dear, 
and thrilled his heart, though a cold 
one compared with hers. 

He was in love ; as much as he 
could be, and more than he had ever 
been before. He never even asked 
himself whether permanent happiness 
was likely to spring from this love : 
he was self-indulgent, reckless, and 
in love. 

He looked at her, wished he could 
recall his whole life, and sighed. 

“Why do you sigh?” said she, 
gently. 

“I don’t know. Yes, I do. Be- 
cause I am not happy.” 

“Not happy?” said she. “You 
ought to be ; and I am sure you de- 
serve to be.” 

“ I don’t know that. However, I 
think I shall be happier in a few min- 
utes, or else very unhappy indeed. 
That depends on you.” 

“On me, Mr. Severne?” and she 
blushed crimson, and her bosom be- 
gan to heave. His words led her to 
expect a declaration and a proposal 
of marriage. 

He saw her mistake ; and her emo- 
tion spoke so plainly and sweetly, and 
tried him so, that it cost him a great 
effort not to clasp her in his arms. 
But that was not his cue at present. 
He lowered his eyes, to give her time, 
and said, sadly, “I can not help see- 
ing that, somehow, there is suspicion 
in the air about me. Miss Maitland 
puts questions, and drops hints. Miss 
Dover watches me like a lynx. Even 


you gave me a hint the other day that 
I never talk to you about my relations, 
and my past life.” 

“Pray do not confound me with 
other people,” said Zoe, proudly. “ If 
I am curious, it is because I know you 
must have done many good things, and 
clever things; but you have too little 
vanity, or too much pride, to tell them 
even to one who — esteems you, and 
could appreciate.” 

“I know you are as generous and 
noble as most people are narrow-mind- 
ed,” said Severne, enthusiastically ; 
“and I have determined to tell you 
all about myself.” 

Zoe’s cheeks beamed with gratified 
pride, and her eyes sparkled. 

“Only, as I would not tell it to any 
body but you, I must stipulate that you 
will receive it in sacred confidence, and 
not repeat it to a living soul.” 

“Not even to my brother, who loves 
you so ?” 

“Not even to him.” 

This alarmed the instinctive delioa- 
cy and modesty of a truly virgin soul. 

“I am not experienced,” said she. 
“But I feel I ought not to yield to 
curiosity, and hear from you any thing 
I am forbidden to tell my brother. 
You might as well say I must not tell 
my mother ; for dear Harrington is all 
the mother I have ; and I am sure he 
is a true friend to you ” (this last a lit- 
tle reproachfully). 

But for Severne’s habitual self-com- 
mand, he would have treated this del- 
icacy as ridiculous prudery; but he 
was equal to greater difficulties. 

“You are right, by instinct, in ev- 
ery thing. Well, then, I shall tell 
you, and yon shall see at once whether 
it ought to be repeated, or to remain 
a sacred deposit between me and the 
only creature I have the courage to 
tell it to. ” 

Zoe lowered her eyes, and marked 
the sand with her parasol. She was 
a little puzzled now, and half con- 
scious that, somehow, he was tying her 
to secrecy with silk instead of rope ; 
but she never suspected the deliberate 


45 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


art and dexterity with which it was 
done. 

Severne then made the revelation, 
which he had been preparing for a day 
or two past ; and, to avoid eternal 
comments by the author, I must once 
more call in the artful aid of the print- 
ers. The true part of Mr. Severne’s 
revelation is in italics ; the false in or- 
dinary type. 

“ When my father died , I inherited 
an estate in Huntingdonshire. It was 
not so large as Vizard's , but it was 
clear. Not a mortgage nor incum- 
brance on it. 1 had a younger broth- 
er ; a fellow with charming manners, 
and very accomplished. These were 
his ruin : he got into high society in 
London ; but high society is not always 
good society. He became connected 
with a fast lot, some of the young no- 
bility. Of course he could not vie with 
them. He got deeply in debt. Not 
but what they were in debt too, every 
one of them. He used to send to me 
for money oftener than I liked ; but I 
never suspected the rate he was going 
at. I was anxious, too, about him ; 
but I said to myself he was just sow- 
ing his wild oats, like other fellows. 
Well, it went on, until — to his misfort- 
une, and mine — he got entangled in 
some disgraceful transactions ; the 
general features are known to all the 
world. I dare say you have heard of 
one or two young noblemen who com- 
mitted forgeries on their relations and 
friends some years ago. One of them , 
the son of an earl , took his sister's 
whole fortune out of her bank , with a 
single forged check. I believe the 
sum total of his forgeries was over one 
hundred thousand pounds. His father 
could not find half the money. A 
number of the nobility had to combine 
to repurchase the documents ; many of 
them were in the hands of the Jews ; 
and I believe a composition was ef- 
fected, with the help of a very power- 
ful barrister , an M. P. He went out 
of his line on this occasion , and medi- 
ated between the parties. What will 
you think when I tell you that my 


brother, the son of my father and my 
mother, was one of these forgers — a 
criminal ?” 

“My poor friend !” cried Zoe, clasp- 
ing her innocent hands. 

“It was a thunder-clap. I had a 
great mind to wash my hands of it, 
and let him go to prison. But how 
could I? The struggle ended in my 
doing like the rest. Only poor, I had 
no noble kinsmen with long purses to 
help me, and no solicitor - general to 
mediate sub rosd. The total amount 
would have swamped my family acres. 
I got them down to sixty per cent., and 
that only crippled my estate forever. 
As for my brother, he fell on his knees 
to me. But I could not forgive him. 
He left the country with a hundred 
pounds I gave him. He is in Cana- 
da ; and only known there as a most 
respectable farmer. He talks of pay- 
ing me back. That I shall believe 
when I see it. All I know for certain 
is that his crime has mortgaged my 
estate, and left me poor — and suspect- 
ed.” 

While Severne related this, there 
passed a somewhat notable thing in 
the world of mind. The inventor of 
this history did not understand it ; the 
hearer did, and accompanied it with 
innocent sympathetic sighs. Her im- 
agination, more powerful and precise 
than the inventor’s, pictured the horror 
of the high-minded brother, his agony, 
his shame, his respect for law and 
honesty, his pity for his own flesh and 
blood, his struggle, and the final tri- 
umph of fraternal affection. Every 
line of the figment was alive to her, 
and she realized the tale. Severne 
only repeated it. 

At the last touch of his cold art, the 
warm-hearted girl could contain no 
longer. 

“Oh, poor Mr. Severne !” she cried ; 
“poor Mr. Severne!” And the tears 
ran down her cheeks. 

He looked at her first with a little 
astonishment — fancy taking his little 
narrative to heart like that — then with 
compunction, and then with a moment- 


46 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


ary horror at himself, and terror at 
the impassable gulf fixed between them, 
by her rare goodness and his depravity. 

Then for a moment he felt, and 
felt all manner of things at once. 
“Oh, don’t cry,” he blurted out, and 
began to blubber himself at having 
made her cry at all, and so unfairly. 
It was his lucky hour ; this hysterical 
effusion, undignified by a single grain 
of active contrition, or even penitent 
resolve, told in his favor. They min- 
gled their tears ; and hearts can not 
hold aloof when tears come together. 
Yes, they mingled their tears, and the 
crocodile tears were the male’s, if you 
please, and the woman’s tears were 
pure holy drops, that angels might have 
gathered, and carried them to God for 
pearls of the human soul. 

After they had cried together over 
the cool figment, Zoe said : “ I do not 
repent my curiosity now. You did 
well to tell me. Oh no, you were 
right, and I will never tell any bod} 7 . 
People are narrow - minded. They 
shall never cast your brother's crime 
in your teeth, nor your own losses I 
esteem you for — oh, so much more 
than ever! I wonder you could tell 
me.” 

“You would not wonder if you 
knew how superior you are to all the 
world : how noble, how generous, and 
how I — •” 

“ Oh, Mr. Severne, it is going to 
rain ! We must get home as fast as 
ever we can.” 

They turned, and Zoe, with true 
virgin coyness, and elastic limbs, made 
the coming rain an excuse for such 
swift walking that Severne could not 
make tender love to her. To be sure, 
Apollo ran after Daphne, with his lit- 
tle proposals ; but, I take it, he ran 
mute — till he found he couldn’t catch 
her. Indeed, it was as much as Sev- 
erne could do to keep up with her 
“fair heel and toe.” But I ascribe 
this to her not wearing high heels 
ever since Fanny told her she was just 
a little too tall, and she was novice 
enough to believe her. 


She would not stop for the drizzle: 
but at last it came down with such a 
vengeance, that she was persuaded to 
leave the path and run for a cattle- 
shed at some distance. Here she and 
Severne were imprisoned. Luckily 
for them “ the kye had not come 
hame,” and the shed was empty. 
They got into the farthest corner of it ; 
for it was all open toward the river; 
and the rain pattered on the roof as 
if it would break it. 

Thus driven together, was it won- 
derful that soon her hand was in his, 
and that, as they purred together, and 
murmured soft nothings, more than 
once she was surprised into returning 
the soft pressure which he gave it so 
often ? 

The plump declaration she had fled 
from, and now seemed deliciously re- 
signed to, did not actually come. But 
he did what she valued more, he re- 
sumed his confidences : told her he 
had vices; was fond of gambling. 
Excused it on the score of his loss by 
his brother ; said he hoped soon to 
hear good news from Canada ; didn’t 
despair ; was happy now, in spite of 
all ; had been happy ever since he had 
met her. What declaration was need- 
ed ? The understanding -was com- 
plete. Neither doubted the other’s 
love; and Zoe would have thought 
herself a faithless, wicked girl, if, aft- 
er this, she had gone and accepted 
any other man. 

But presently she had a misgiving, 
and looked at her watch. Yes, it 
wanted but one hour to dinner. Now, 
her brother was rather a Tartar about 
punctuality at dinner. She felt she 
was already in danger of censure for 
her long tete-a-tete with Severne, 
though the rain was the culprit. She 
could not afford to draw every eye 
upon her by being late for dinner along 
with him. 

She told Severne they must go home 
now, rain or no rain, and she walked 
resolutely out into the weather. 

Severne did not like it at all, but 
he was wise enough to deplore it only 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


47 


on her account ; and indeed her light 
alpaca was soon drenched, and began 
to cling to her. 

But the spirited girl only laughed 
at his condolences, as she hurried on. 
“Why, it is only warm water,” said 
she; “this no more than a bath in 
the summer sea. Bathing is getting 
wet through in blue flannel. Well, I 
am bathing in blue alpaca.” 

“ But it will ruin your dress.” 

“My dress! Why, it is as old as 
the hills. When I get home I’ll give 
it to Rosa, ready washed — ha-ha!” 

The rain pelted and poured, and 
long before they reached the inn, Zoe’s 
dress had become an external cuticle, 
an alpaca skin. 

But innocence is sometimes very 
bold. She did not care a bit ; and, 
to tell the truth, she had little need to 
care. Beauty so positive as hers is 
indomitable. The petty accidents 
that are the terrors of homely charms 
seem to enhance Queen Beauty. Di- 
sheveled hair adorns it: close bound 
hair adorns it. Simplicity adorns it. 
Diamonds adorn it. Every thing seems 
to adorn it, because, the truth is, it 
adorns every thing. And so Zoe, 
drenched with rain, and her dress a 
bathing-gown, was only a Greek god- 
dess tinted blue, her bust and shoul- 
ders and her molded figure covered, 
yet revealed. What was she to an 
artist’s eye? Just the Townly Venus 
with her sculptor’s cunning draperies, 
and J uno’s gait. 

“Et vera incessa patnit Dea.” 

When she got to the hotel she held 
up her finger to Severne with a pretty 
peremptoriness. She had shown him 
so much tenderness, she felt she had a 
right to order him now : “I must beg 
of you,” said she, “to go straight to 
your rooms and dress very quickly, and 
present yourself to Harrington five 
minutes before dinner at least.” 

“ I will obey,” said he, obsequiously. 

That pleased her, and she kissed her 
hand to him, and scudded to her own 
room. 


At sight of the blazing fire and 
provident preparations, she started, 
and said, aloud, “Oh, how nice of 
them!” and, all dripping as she was, 
she stood there with her young heart 
in a double glow. 

Such a nature as hers has too little 
egotism and low-bred vanity to under- 
value worthy love. The infinite heart 
of a Zoe Vizard can love but one with 
passion, yet ever so many more with 
warm and tender affection. 

She gave Aunt Maitland credit for 
this provident affection. It was out 
of the sprightly Fanny’s line ; and she 
said to herself, “Dear old thing! 
there, I thought she was bottling up a 
lecture for me, and all the time her 
real anxiety was lest I should be wet 
through.” Thereupon she settled in 
her mind to begin loving Aunt Mait- 
land from that hour. She did not 
ring for her maid till she was nearly 
dressed, and, when Rosa came and ex- 
claimed at the condition of her cast-off 
robes, she laughed, and told her it was 
nothing — the Rhine was nice and warm 
— pretending she had been in it. She 
ordered her to dry the dress, and iron it. 

“Why, la, miss; you’ll never wear 
it again, to be sure?” said Rosa, de- 
murely. 

“I don’t know,” said the young 
lady, archly; “but I mean to take 
great care of it,” and burst out laugh- 
ing like a peal of silver bells, because 
she was in high spirits, and saw what 
Rosa would be at. 

Give away the gown she had been 
wooed and wet through in — no, thank 
you ! Such gowns as these be land- 
marks, my masters. 

Vizard, unconscious of her arrival, 
was walking up and down the room, 
fidgeting more and more, when in 
came Zoe, dressed high in black silk 
and white lace, looking ever so cozy, 
and blooming like a rose. 

“What!” said he; “in, and dress- 
ed.” He took her by the shoulders, 
and gave her a great kiss. “You 
young monkey!” said he, “I was 
afraid you were washed away.” 


48 


A WOMAN-HATER 


Zoe suggested that would only have 
been a woman obliterated. 

“That is true,” said he, with an 
air of hearty conviction. “I forgot 
that.” 

He then inquired if she had had a 
nice walk. 

“Oh, beautiful! Imprisoned half 
the time in a cow- shed, and then 
drenched. But I’ll have a nice walk 
with you, dear, up and down the 
room.” 

“ Come on, then.” 

So she put her right hand on his 
left shoulder, and gave him her left 
hand, and they walked up and down 
the room, Zoe beaming with happi- 
ness and affection for every body, and 
walking at a graceful bend. 

Se verne came in, dressed and per- 
fect as though just taken out of a 
bandbox. He sat down at a little 
table, and read a little journal unob- 
trusively. It was his cue to divest his 
late tete-a-tete of public importance. 

Then came dinner, and two of the 
party absent. Vizard heard their 
voices going like mill- clacks at this 
sacred hour, and summoned them 
rather roughly, as stated above. His 
back was to Zoe, and she rubbed her 
hands gayly to Severne, and sent him 
a flying whisper: “Oh, what fun! 
We are the culprits, and they are the 
ones scolded.” 

Dinner waited ten minutes, and 
then the defaulters appeared. Noth- 
ing was said, but Vizard looked rath- 
er glum ; and Aunt Maitland cast a 
vicious look at Severne and Zoe : 
they had made a forced march, and 
outflanked her. She sat down, and 
bided her time, like a fowler waiting 
till the ducks come within shot. 

But the conversation was common- 
place, inconsecutive, shifty, and vague, 
and it was two hours before any thing 
came within shot : all this time not a 
soul suspected the ambushed fowler. 

At last, Vizard, having thrown out 
one of his hints that the fair sex are 
imperfect, Fanny, being under the in- 
iiuence of Miss Maitland’s revelations, 


ventured to suggest that fhey had no 
more faults than men, and certainly 
were not more deceitful. 

“Indeed?” said Vizard. “Not — 
more — deceitful! Do you speak from 
experience ?” 

“ Oh no, no,” said Fanny, getting 
rather frightened. “I only think so, 
somehow.” 

“Well, but you must have a reason. 
May I respectfully inquire whether 
more men have jilted you than you 
have jilted ?” 

“You may inquire as respectfully 
as you like; but I sha’n’t tell you.” 

“That is right, Miss Dover,” said 
Severne; “don’t you put up with his 
nonsense. He knows nothing about 
it : women are angels, compared with 
men. The wonder is, how they can 
waste so much truth and constancy 
and beauty upon the foul sex. To 
my mind, there is only one thing we 
beat you in ; we do stick by each 
other rather better than you do. You 
are truer to us. We are a little truer 
to each other.” 

“Not a little,” suggested Vizard, 
dryly. 

“For my part,” said Zoe, blushing 
pink at her boldness in advancing an 
opinion on so large a matter, “I 
think these comparisons are rather 
narrow-minded. What have we to 
do with bad people, male or female? 
A good man is good, and a good 
woman is good. Still, I do think that 
women have greater hearts to love, 
and men, perhaps, greater hearts for 
friendship:” then, blushing roseate, 
“ even in the short time we have been 
here we have seen two gentlemen give 
up pleasure for self-denying friend- 
ship. Lord Uxmoor gave us all up 
for a sick friend. Mr. Severne did 
more, perhaps ; for he lost that divine 
singer. You will never hear her now, 
Mr. Severne.” 

The Maitland gun went off: “A 
sick friend! Mr. Severne? Ha, ha, 
ha ! You silly girl, he has got no siek 
friend. He was at the gaming-table. 
That was his sick friend.” 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


49 


It was an effective discharge. It 
winged a duck or two. It killed, as 
follows: the tranquillity — the good 
humor — and the content of the little 
party. 

Severne started, and stared, and lost 
color, and then cast at Vizard a ven- 
omous look never seen on his face be- 
fore; for he naturally concluded that 
Vizard had betrayed him. 

Zoe was amazed, looked instantly 
at Severne, saw it was true, and turn- 
ed pale at his evident discomfiture. 
Her lover had been guilty of deceit — 
mean and rather heartless deceit. 

Even Fanny winced at the point- 
blank denunciation of a young man, 
who was himself polite to every body. 
She would have done it in a very dif- 
ferent way — insinuations, innuendo, 
etc. 

“They have found you out, old fel- 
low,” said Vizard, merrily ; “ but you 
need not look as if you had robbed a 
church. Hang it all! a fellow has 
got a right to gamble, if he chooses. 
Anyway, he paid for his whistle ; for 
he lost three hundred pounds.” 

“Three hundred pounds!” cried 
the terrible old maid. “ Where ever 
did he get them to lose ?” 

Severne divined that he had noth- 
ing to gain by fiction here; so he 
said, sullenly, “ I got them from Viz- 
ard ; but I gave him value for them.” 

“ You need not publish our pri- 
vate transactions, Ned,” said Vizard. 
“ Miss Maitland, this is really not in 
your department.” 

“ Oh yes, it is,” said she ; “and so 
you’ll find.” 

This pertinacity looked like defi- 
ance. Vizard rose from his chair, 
bowed ironically, with the air of a 
man not disposed for a hot argument. 

“In that case — with permission — 
I’ll withdraw to my veranda and, in 
that [he struck a light] peaceful — 
[here he took a suck] shade — ” 

“ Yon will meditate on the charms 
of Ina Klosking.” 

Vizard received this poisoned ar- 
row in the small of the back, as he 
3 


was sauntering out. He turned like 
a shot, as if a man had struck him, 
and, for a single moment, he looked 
downright terrible, and wonderfully 
unlike the easy-going Harrington Viz- 
ard. But he soon recovered himself. 
“What! you listen, do you?” said 
he ; and turned contemptuously on 
his heel without another word. 

There was an uneasy, chilling 
pause. Miss Maitland would have 
given something to withdraw her last 
shot. Fanny was very uncomforta- 
ble, and fixed her eyes on the table. 
Zoe, deeply shocked at Severne’s de- 
ceit, was now amazed and puzzled 
about her brother. “ Ina Klosking !” 
inquired she; “who is that?” 

“Ask Mr. Severne,” said Miss Mait- 
land, sturdily. 

Now, Mr. Severne was sitting silent, 
but with restless eyes, meditating how 
he should get over that figment of his 
about the sick friend. 

Zoe turned round on him, fixed her 
glorious eyes full upon his face, and 
said, rather imperiously, “Mr. Sev- 
erne, who is Ina Klosking ?” 

Mr. Severne looked up blankly in 
her face, and said nothing. 

She colored at not being answered, 
and repeated her question (all this 
time Fanny’s eyes were fixed on the 
young man even more keenly than 
Zoe’s), 1 ‘ Who — and what — is Ina 
Klosking?” 

“She is a public singer.” 

“ Do you know her?” 

“Yes; I heard her sing at Vien- 
na.” 

“Yes, yes; but do you know her 
to speak to ?” 

He considered half a moment, and 
then said he had not that honor. 
“But,” said he, rather hurriedly, 
“somebody or other told me she had 
come out at the opera here, and made 
a hit.” 

“ What in— Siebel ?” 

“I don’t know. But I saw large 
bills out with her name. She made 
her debut in Gounod’s ‘Faust.’” 

“It is my Siebel !” cried Zoe, rapt' 


50 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


urously. “Why, aunt, no wonder 
Harrington admires her. For my 
part, I adore her. ” 

“ You, child ! That is quite a dif- 
ferent matter.” 

“ No, it is not. He is like me ; he 
has only seen her once, as I have, and 
on the stage.” 

“ Fiddle-dee-dee. I tell you he is 
in love with her, over head and ears. 
He is wonderfully inflammable for a 
woman-hater. Ask Mr. Severne : he 
knows.” 

“Mr. Severne, is my brother in 
love with that lady ?” 

Severne’s turn had come ; that able 
young man saw his chance, and did as 
good a bit of acting as ever was ex- 
temporized even by an Italian mime. 

“Miss Vizard,” said he, fixing his 
hazel eyes on her for the first time, in 
a way that made her feel his power, 
“ what passed in confidence between 
two friends ought to be sacred. Don’t 
— you — think so?” (The girl quiver- 
ed, remembering the secret he had 
confessed to her.) “Miss Maitland 
has done your brother and me the 
honor to listen to our secrets. She 
shall repeat them, if she thinks it deli- 
cate ; but I shall not, without Vizard’s 
consent ; and, more than that, the con- 
versation seems to me to be taking 
the turn of casting blame and ridicule 
and I don’t know what on the best- 
hearted, kindest-hearted, truest-heart- 
ed, noblest, and manliest man I know. 
I decline to take any further share in 
it.” 

With these last words in his mouth, 
he stuck his hands defiantly into his 
pockets, and stalked out into the ve- 
randa, looking every inch a man. 

Zoe folded her arms, and gazed aft- 
er him with undisguised admiration. 
How well every thing he did became 
him ; his firing up — his brusquerie — 
the very movements of his body, all so 
piquant, charming, and unwomanly ! 
As he vanished from her admiring 
eyes, she turned, with flaming cheeks, 
on Miss Maitland, and said, “Well, 
aunt, you have driven them both out 


at the window ; now, say something 
pretty to Fanny and me, and drive us 
out at the door.” 

Miss Maitland hung her head ; she 
saw she had them all against her but 
Fanny, and Fanny was a trimmer. 
She said, sorrowfully, “No, Zoe. I 
feel how unattractive I have made the 
room. 1 have driven away the gods 
of your idolatry — they are only idols 
of clay ; but that you can’t believe. I 
will banish nobody else, except a cross- 
grained, but respectable old woman, 
who is too experienced, and too much 
soured by it, to please young people 
when things are going wrong.” 

With this she took her bed-candle, 
and retired. 

Zoe had an inward struggle. As 
Miss Maitland opened her bedroom 
door, she called to her: “Aunt! one 
word. Was it you that ordered the 
fire in my bedroom ?” 

Now, if she had received the answer 
she expected, she meant to say, “ Then 
please let me forget every thing else 
you have said or done to-day.” But 
Miss Maitland stared a little, and 
said, “Fire in your bedroom? no.” 

“Oh! Then I have nothing to 
thank you for this day,” said Zoe, 
with all the hardness of youth ; though, 
as a general rule, she had not her 
share of it. 

The old lady winced visibly, but she 
made a creditable answer. “Then, 
my dear, you shall have my prayers 
this night ; and it does not matter 
much whether you thank me for them 
or not. ” 

As she disappeared, Zoe flung her- 
self wearily on a couch, and very soon 
began to cry. Fanny ran to her, and 
nestled close to her, and the two had a 
rock together, Zoe crying, and Fanny 
coaxing and comforting. 

“Ah!” sighed Zoe, “this was the 
happiest day of my life ; and see how 
it ends. Quarreling ; and deceit ! the 
one I hate, the other I despise. No, 
never again, until I have said my 
prayers, and am just going to sleep, 
will I cry ‘ O giorno felice ! ’ as 1 did 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


51 


this afternoon, when the rain was 
pouring on me, but my heart was all 
in a glow.” 

These pretty little lamentations of 
youth were interrupted by Mr. Severne 
slipping away from his friend, to try 
and recover lost ground. 

He was coolly received by Zoe; 
then he looked dismayed, but affected 
not to understand ; then Zoe pinched 
Fanny, which meant “ I don’t choose 
to put him on his defense ; but I am 
dying to hear if he has any thing to 
say.” Thereupon Fanny obeyed that 
significant pinch, and said, “Mr. Sev- 
erne, my cousin is not a woman of the 
world ; she is a country girl, with old- 
fashioned romantic notions that a man 
should be above telling fibs. I have 
known her longer than you, and I see 
she can’t understand your passing off 
the gambling-table for a sick friend.” 

“Why, I never did,” said he, as 
bold as brass. 

“ Mr. Severne !” 

“Miss Dover, my sick friend ivas 
at ‘The Golden Star.’ That’s a small 
hotel in a different direction from the 
Kursaal. I was there from seven 
o’clock till nine. You ask the waiter, 
if you don’t believe me.” 

Fanny giggled at this inadvertent 
speech ; but Zoe’s feelings were too 
deeply engaged to shoot fun flying. 
“Fanny,” cried she, eagerly, “ I heard 
him tell the coachman to drive him to 
that very place, ‘ The Golden Star. ’ ” 

“Really?” said Fanny, mystified. 

“Indeed I did, dear. I remember 
‘ The Golden Star ’ distinctly.” 

“Ladies, I was there till nine 
o’clock. Then I started for the thea- 
tre Unfortunately the theatre is at- 
tached to the Kursaal. I thought I 
would just look in for a few minutes. 
In fact, I don’t think I was there half 
an hour. But Miss Maitland is quite 
right in one thing. I lost more than 
two hundred pounds, all through play- 
ing on a false system. Of course, I 
know I had no business to go there at 
all, when I might have been by your 
side.” 


“And heard La Klosking.” 

“It was devilish bad taste, and you 
may well be surprised and offended.” 

“No, no; not at that,” said Zoe. 

“But hang it all, don’t make a fel- 
low worse than he is ! Why should I 
invent a sick friend ? I suppose I 
have a right to go to the Kursaal if I 
choose. At any rate, I mean to go to- 
morrow afternoon, and win a pot of 
money. Hinder me who can.” 

Zoe beamed with pleasure. “ That 
spiteful old woman ! I am ashamed 
of myself. Of course you have. It 
becomes a man to say je veux ; and it 
becomes a woman to yield. Forgive 
our unworthy doubts. We will all go 
to the Kursaal to-morrow.” 

The reconciliation was complete; 
and, to add to Zoe’s happiness, she 
made a little discovery. Rosa came 
in to see if she wanted any thing. 
That, you must know, was Rosa’s way 
of saying, “ It is very late. I'm tired; 
so the sooner you go to bed, the bet- 
ter.” And Zoe was by nature so con- 
siderate that she often went to bed 
more for Rosa’s convenience than her 
own inclination. 

But this time she said, sharply, 
“Yes, I do. I want to know who 
had my fire lighted for me in the mid- 
dle of summer.” 

“Why, squire, to be sure,” said 
Rosa. 

“ What — my brother!” 

“Yes, miss; and seen to it all his- 
self : leastways, I found the things 
properly muddled. ’Twas to be seen 
a man had been at ’em.” 

Rosa retired, leaving Zoe’s face a 
picture. 

Just then Vizard put his head cau- 
tiously in at the window, and said, in 
a comic whisper, “ Is she gone?” 

“Yes, she is gone,” cried Zoe, “and 
you are wanted in her place.” She 
ran to meet him. “Who ordered a 
fire in my room, and muddled all my 
things ?” said she, severely. 

“I did. What of that?” 

“Oh, nothing. Only now I know 


52 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


who is my friend. Young people, 
here’s a lesson for you. When a lady 
is out in the rain, don’t prepare a lect- 
ure for her, like Aunt Maitland, but 
light her fire, like this dear old duck 
of a woman -hating impostor. Kiss 
me!” (violently). 

“ There — pest!” 

“That is not enough, nor half. 
There, and there, and there, and there, 
and there, and there.” 

“ Now look here, my young friend,” 
said Vizard, holding her lovely head 
by both ears, “you are exciting your- 
self about nothing, and that will eud 
in one of your headaches. So just 
take your candle, and go to bed, like 
a good little girl.” 

“Must I? Well, then, I will. 
Good-bye, tyrant dear. Oh, how I 
love you ! Come, Fanny.” 

She gave her hand shyly to Severne, 
and soon they were both in Zoe’s room. 

Rosa was dismissed, and they had 
their chat ; but it was nearly all on 
one side. Fanny had plenty to say, 
but did not say it. She had not the 
heart to cloud that beaming face again 
so soon ; she temporized : Zoe pressed 
her with questions too ; but she slur- 
red things. Zoe asked her why Miss 
Maitland was so bitter against Mr. 
Severne. Fanny said, in an off-hand 
way, “Oh, it is only on your account 
she objects to him.” 

“ And what are her objections?” 

“Oh, only grammatical ones, dear. 
She says his antecedents are obscure, 
and his relatives unknown, ha! ha! 
ha ! ” Fanny laughed, but Zoe did not 
see the fun. Then Fanny stroked her 
down. 

“Never mind that old woman. I 
shall interfere properly, if I see you in 
danger. It was monstrous, her mak- 
ing an esclandre at the very dinner-ta- 
ble, and spoiling your happy day.” 

‘ ‘ But she hasn’t ! ” cried Zoe, eager- 
ly. “ ‘All’s well that ends well.’ I 
am happy — oh, so happy ! You love 
me. Harrington loves me. He loves 
me. What more can any woman ask 
for than to be amata bene ?” 


This was the last word between Zo*l 
and Fanny upon St. Brooch’s day. 

As Fanny went to her own room, 
the vigilant Maitland opened her door 
that looked upon the corridor, and 
beckoned her in. “Well,” said she, 
“did you speak to Zoe?” 

“ J ust a word before dinner. Aunt, 
she came in wet to the skin, and in 
higher spirits than Rosa ever knew 
her.” 

Aunt groaned. 

“And what do you think? Her 
spoiled dress, she ordered it to be iron- 
ed and put by. It is a case.” 

Next day they all met at a late 
breakfast, and good humor was the or- 
der of the day. 

This encouraged Zoe to throw out 
a feeler about the gambling-tables. 
Then Fanny said it must be nice to 
gamble, because it was so naughty. 
“In a long experience,” said Miss 
Dover, with a sigh, “I have found 
that whatever is nice is naughty, and 
whatever is naughty is nice.” 

“There’s a short code of morals,” 
observed Vizard, “ for the use of sem- 
inaries. Now let us hear Severne; 
he knows all the defenses of gambling 
lunacy has discovered.” 

Severne, thus appealed to, said play 
was like other things, bad only when 
carried to excess. “At Homburg, 
where the play is fair, w hat harm can 
there be in devoting tw'o or three hours 
of a long day to trente et quarante ? 
The play exercises memory, judgment, 
sangfroid , and other good qualities of 
the mind. Above all, it is on the 
square. Now, buying and selling 
shares without delivery, bulling, and 
bearing, and rigging, and Stock -ex- 
change speculations in general, are 
just as much gambling; but with 
cards all marked, and dice loaded, and 
the fair player has no chance. The 
world,” said this youthful philosopher, 
“ is taken in by w'ords. The truth is, 
that gambling with cards is fair, and 
gambling without cards a swindle.” 

“He is hard upon the City,” said 


63 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


the Vizard; “but no matter. Pro- 
ceed, young man. Develop your code 
of morals for the amusement of man- 
kind, while duller spirits inflict instruc- 
tion.” 

“You have got my opinion,” said 
Severne. “ Oblige us with yours.” 

“No; mine would not be popular 
just now : I reserve it till we are there, 
and can see the lunatics at work.” 

“ Oh, then we are to go,” cried Fan- 
ny. “ Oh, be joyful !” 

“That depends on Miss Maitland. 
It is not in my department.” 

Instantly four bright eyes were turn- 
ed piteously on the awful Maitland. 

“Oh, aunt,” said Zoe, pleadingly, 
“ do you think there would be any 
great harm in our — just for once in a 
way ?” 

“ My dear,” said Miss Maitland, 
solemnly, “I can not say that I ap- 
prove of public gambling in general. 
But at Homburg the company is se- 
lect. I have seen a German prince, 
a Russian prince, and two English 
countesses, the very elite of London 
society, seated at the same table in the 
Kursaal. I think, therefore, there can 
be no harm in your going, under the 
conduct of older persons — myself, for 
example, and your brother.” 

“Code three,” suggested Vizard — 
“the chaperonian code.” 

“And a very good one, too,” said 
Zoe. “But, aunt, must we look on, 
or may we play just a little, little ?” 

“My dear, there can be no great 
harm in playing a little, in good com- 
pany — if you play with your own mon- 
ey.” She must have one dig at Sev- 
erne. 

“I sha’n’t play very deep, then,” 
said Fanny; “ for I have got no mon- 
ey hardly.” 

Vizard came to the front, like a 
man. “No more should I,” said he, 
“ but for -Hemes & Co. As it is, I 
am a Croesus, and I shall stand one 
hundred pounds, which you three la- 
dies must divide ; and between you, 
no doubt, you will break the bank.” 

Acclamations greeted this piece of 


misogyny. When they had subsided, 
Severne was called on to explain the 
game, and show the young ladies how 
to win a fortune with thirty -three 
pounds six shillings and eight pence. 

The table was partly cleared, two 
packs of cards sent for, and the pro- 
fessor lectured. ‘ ‘ This, ” said he, ‘ ‘ is 
the cream of the game. Six packs 
are properly shuflled, and properly cut; 
the players put their money on black 
or red, which is the main event, and 
is settled thus : The dealer deals the 
cards in two rows. He deals the first 
row for black, and stops the moment 
the cards pass thirty. That deal de- 
termines how near noir can get to 
thirty-one.” 

Severne then dealt for noir, and the 
cards came as follows : 

Queen of hearts — four of clubs — • 
ten of spades — nine of diamonds: 
total, thirty-three. 

He then dealt for red : 

Knave of clubs — ace of diamonds — • 
two of spades — king of spades — nine 
of hearts : total, thirty-two. 

“ Red wins, because the cards dealt 
for red come nearest thirty-one. Be- 
sides that,” said he, “you can bet on 
the color, or against it. The actual 
color of the first card the player turns 
up on the black line must be black or 
red. Whichever happens to be it is 
called ‘ the color.’ Say it is red ; then, 
if the black line of cards wins, color 
loses. Now, I will deal again for both 
events. ” 

‘ ‘ I deal for noir. ” 

“ Nine of diamonds. Red, then, is 
the actual color turned up on the black 
line. Do you bet for it, or against 
it?” 

“ I bet for it, ” cried Zoe. “ It’s my 
favorite color.” 

“And what do you say on the main 
event ?” 

“ Oh, red on that too.” 

“Very good. I go on dealing for 
noir. Queen of diamonds, three of 
spades, knave of hearts — nine of 
spades : thirty-two. That looks ugly 
for your two events, black coming so 


54 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


near as thirty- two. Now for red. 
Four of hearts, knave of spades, sev- 
en of diamonds, queen of clubs — thir- 
ty-one, by Jove ! Rouge gagne , et cou- 
leur. There is nothing like courage. 
You have won both events.” 

“Oh, what a nice game!” cried 
Zoe. 

He then continued to deal, and they 
all bet on the main event and the col- 
or, staking fabulous sums, till at last 
both numbers came up thirty-one. 

Thereupon Se verne informed them 
that half the stakes belonged to him. 
That was the trifling advantage ac- 
corded to the bank. 

“Which trifling advantage,” said 
Vizard, “ has enriched the man-eat- 
ing company, and their prince, and 
built the Kursaal, and will clean you 
all out, if you play long enough.” 

‘ ‘ That, ” said Severne, ‘ ‘ I deny. It 
is more than balanced by the right the 
players have of doubling, till they gain, 
and by the maturity of the chances : 
I will explain this to the ladies. You 
see experience proves that neither red 
nor black can come up more than nine 
times running. When, therefore, ei- 
ther color has come up four times, 
you can put a moderate stake on the 
other color, and double on it till it 
must come, by the laws of nature. 
Say red has turned four times. You 
put a napoleon on black ; red gains. 
You lose a napoleon. You don’t re- 
move it, but double on it. The chances 
are now five to one you gain : but if 
you lose, you double on the same, and, 
when you have got to sixteen napole- 
ons, the color must change ; uniform- 
ity has reached its physical limit. 
That is called the maturity of the 
chances. Begin as unluckily as pos- 
sible with five francs, and lose. If 
you have to double eight times before 
you win, it only comes to twelve hun- 
dred and eighty francs. Given, there- 
fore, a man to whom fifty napoleons 
are no more than five francs to us, he 
can never lose if he doubles, like a 
Trojan, till the chances are mature. 
This is called ‘the Martingale:’ but, 


observe, it only secures against loss. 
Heavy gains are made by doubling 
judiciously on the winning color, or 
by simply betting on short runs of it. 
When red comes up, back red, and 
double twice on it. Thus you profit 
by the remarkable and observed fact 
that colors do not, as a rule, alternate, 
but reach ultimate equality by avoid- 
ing alternation, and making short runs, 
with occasional long runs ; the latter 
are rare, and must be watched with a 
view to the balancing run of the other 
color. This is my system.” 

“And you really think you have in- 
vented it ?” asked Vizard. 

“ I am not so conceited. My sys- 
tem was communicated to me, in the 
Kursaal itself — by an old gentleman.” 

“An old gentleman, or the — ?” 

“Oh, Harrington,” cried Zoe, “fie!” 

“ My wit is appreciated at its value. 
Proceed, Ned.” 

Severne told him, a little defiantly, 
it was an old gentleman, with a noble 
head, a silvery beard, and the most 
benevolent countenance he ever saw. 

“Curious place for his reverence 
to be in,” hazarded Vizard. 

“ He saw me betting, first on the 
black, then on the red, till I was clean- 
ed out, and then he beckoned me.” 

“ Not a man of premature advice 
anyway.” 

“He told me he had observed my 
play. I had been relying on the al- 
ternations of the colors, which alter- 
nation chance persistently avoids, and 
arrives at equality by runs. He then 
gave me a better system.” 

“And, having expounded his sys- 
tem, he illustrated it ? Tell the truth 
now ; he sat down and lost the coat 
off his back? It followed his family 
acres.” 

“ You are quite wrong again. He 
never plays. He has heart-disease, 
and his physician has forbidden him 
all excitement.” 

“ His nation ?” 

“Humph! French.” 

“Ah! the nation that produced 
‘ Le philosophe sans le savoir.' And 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


5b 


now h has added, ( Le philosophe sans 
le vou'toir, 1 and you have stumbled on ; 
him. What a life for an aged man! 
F ortunatus ille senex qui ludicola vi- \ 
vit. Tantalus handcuffed and glow- 
ering ovet a gambling-table : a hell in 
a hell.” 

“Oh, Harrington! — ” 

“ Exclamations not allowed in so- 
ber argument, Zoe.” 

“Come, Ned, it is not heart-disease, 
it is purse disease. Just do me a fa- 
vor. Here are five sovereigns ; give 
those to the old beggar, and let him 
risk them.” 

“I eould hardly take such a lib- 
erty with an old gentleman of his age 
and appearance — a man of honor too, 
and high sentiments. Why, I’d bet 
seven to four he is one of Napoleon’s 
old soldiers.” 

The ladies sided unanimously with 
Severne. “What! offer a vieux de 
V Empire five pounds? Oh, fie !” 

“Fiddle-dee-dee !” said the indom- 
itable Vizard. “ Besides, he will do 
it with his usual grace. He will ap- 
proach the son of Mars with that 
feigned humility which sits so well on 
youth, and ask him, as a personal fa- 
vor, to invest five pounds for him at 
rouge-et-noir . The old soldier will 
stiffen into double dignity at first, then 
give him a low wink, and end by sit- 
ting down and gambling. He will be 
cautious at starting, as one who opens 
trenches for the siege of Mammon ; 
but soon the veteran will get heated, 
and give battle ; he will fancy himself 
at Jena, sinee the croupiers are Prus- 
sians. If he loses, you cut him dead, 
being a humdrum Englishman ; and 
if he wins, he cuts you, and pock- 
ets the cash, being a Frenchman that 
talks sentiment.” 

This sally provoked a laugh, in 
which Severn e joined, and said, “Re- 
ally, for a landed proprietor, you know 
a thing or two.” He consented at 
last, with some reluctance, to take the 
money ; and none of the persons pres- 
ent doubted that he would execute the 
commissi oti with a grace and delica- 


cy all his own. Nevertheless, to run 
forward a little with the narrative, I 
must tell you that he never did hand 
that five pound to the venerable sire; 
a little thing prevented him— the old 
man wasn’t born yet. 

“ And now,” said Vizard, “it is our 
last day in Homburg. You are all go- 
ing to gratify your mania — lunacy is 
contagious. Suppose I gratify mine.” 

“ Do, dear, ’’said Zoe ; “ and what 
is it?” 

“ I like your asking that ; when it 
was publicly announced last night, and 
I fled discomfited to my balcony, and, 
in my confusion, lighted a cigar. My 
mania is — the Klosking.” 

“That is not a mania; it is good 
taste. She is admirable.” 

“ Yes, in an opera ; but I want to 
know how she looks and talks in a 
room ; and that is insane of me.” 

“ Then so you shall, insane or not. 
I will call on her this morning, and 
take you in my hand.” 

“ What an ample palm ! and what 
juvenile audacity ! Zoe, you take my 
breath away.” 

“No audacity at all. I am sure of 
my welcome. How often must I tell 
you that we have mesmerized each 
other, that lady and I, and only wait- 
ing an opportunity to rush into each 
other’s arms. It began with her sin- 
gling me out at the opera. But I dare 
sav that was owing, at Jirst , only to 
my being in full dress.” 

“No, no; to your being, like Ag- 
amemnon, a head taller than all the 
other Greeks.” 

“Harrington ! I am notaGreek. I 
am a thorough English girl at heart, 
though I am as black as a coal.” 

“ No apology needed in our present 
frame. You are all the more like the 
ace of spades.” 

“Do you want me to take you to 
the Klosking, sir? Then you had 
better not make fun of me. I tell you 
she sung to me, and smiled on me, and 
eourtesied to me ; and, now you have 
put it into my head, I mean to call 
upon her, and I will take you with me 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


f>6 

What I shall do, I shall send in my 
card. I shall be admitted, and you 
will wait outside. As soon as she sees 
me, she will run to me with both hands 
out, and say, in excellent F reach , I 
hope, ‘ How , mademoiselle ! you have j 
deigned to remember me, and to hon- ! 
or me with a visit.’ Then I shall say, ! 
in school-Erench, ‘ Yes, madame ; ex- j 
case the intrusion, but I was so charm- ! 
ed with your performance. We leave | 
Homburg to-morrow, and as, unfortu- j 
nately for myself, I can not have the 
pleasure of seeing you again upon the 
stage — ’ then I shall stop, for her to 
interrupt me. Then she will interrupt 
me, and say charming things, as only 
foreigners can ; and then I shall say, 
still in school-Erench, ‘ Madame, I am 
not alone. I have my brother with 
me. He adores music, and was as 
fascinated with your Siebel as myself. 
May I present him? Then she will 
say, ‘Oh yes, by all means:’ and I 
shall introduce you. Then you can 
make love to her. That will be droll. 
Eanny, I’ll tell you every word he 
says. ” 

“Make love to her!” cried Vizard. 
“ Is this your estimate of a brother’s 
motives? My object in visiting this 
lady is, not to feed my mania, but to 
cure it. I have seen her on the stage, 
looking like the incarnation of a poet’s 
dream. I am extasit with her. Now 
let me catch her en deshabille , with 
her porter on one side, and her lover 
on the other : and so to Devonshire, re- 
lieved of a fatal illusion.” 

“ If that is your view, I’ll go by my- 
self ; for I know she is a noble woman, 
and as much a lady otf the stage as on 
it. Mv only fear is she will talk that 
dreadful guttural German, with its 
‘oches’ and its ‘aches,’ and then where 
shall we all be ? We must ask Mr. 
Severne to go with us.” 

“A good idea. No — a vile one. 
He is abominably handsome, and has 
the gift of the gab — in German, and 
other languages. He is sure to cut 
me out, the villain ! Lock him up 
somebody, till we come back.” 


“Now, Harrington, don’t be absurd. 
He must, and shall, be of the party. 

I have my reasons. Mr. Severre, ” said 
she, turning on him with a b/ush and 
a divine smile, * ‘ you will oblige me, I 
am sure.” 

Severne’s face turned as blank as a 
doll’s, and he said nothing, one way 
or other. 

It was settled that they should all 
meet at the Kursaal at four, to dine 
and play. But Zoe and her party 
would go on ahead by the one-o’clock 
train ; and so she retired to put on 
her bonnet — a technical expression, 
which implies a good deal. 

Eanny went with her, and, as events 
more exciting than the usual routine 
of their young lives were ahead, their 
tongues went a rare pace. But the 
only thing worth presenting to the 
reader came at the end, after the said 
business of the toilet had been dispatch- 
ed. 

Zoe said, “ I must go now, or I shall 
keep them waiting.” 

“ Only one, dear,” said Fanny, dry- 
ly- 

“Why only one?” 

“ Mr. Severne will not go.” 

“ That he will : I made a point of it.” 

“You did, dear? but still he will 
not go.” 

There was something in this, and in 
Fanny’s tone, that startled Zoe, and 
puzzled her sorely. She turned round 
upon her with flashing eye, and said, 
“No mysteries, please, dear. Why 
won't he go with me wherever I ask 
him to go? or, rather, what makes 
you think he won’t ?” 
j ’ Said Eanny, thoughtfully : “ I could 
not tell you, all in a moment, why I 
I feel so positive. One puts little things 
together that are nothing apart : one 
observes faces ; I do, at least. You 
don’t seem, to me, to be so quick at 
that as most girls. But, Zoe dear, 
vou know very well one often knows 
a thing for certain, yet one doesn’t 
know exactly what makes one know 
it.” 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


67 


Now Zoe’s amour propre was wound- 
ed by Fanny’s suggestion that Severne 
would not go to Homburg, or, indeed, 
to the world’s end with her ; so she 
drew herself up in her grand way, 
and folded her arms, and said, a little 
haughtily, “ Then tell me what is it 
you know about him and me, without 
knowing how on earth you know it.” 

The supercilious tone and grand 
manner nettled Fanny, and it wasn’t 
“brooch day:” she stood up to her 
lofty cousin like a little game-cock. 
“ I know this,” said she, with height- 
ened cheek, and flashing eyes, and a 
voice of steel, “you will never get 
Mr. Edward Severne into one room 
with Zoe Vizard and Ina Klosking.” 

Zoe Vizard turned very pale, but 
her eyes flashed defiance on her friend. 

“That I’ll know!” said she, in a 
deep voice, with a little gasp, but a 
world of pride and resolution. 


CHAPTER VII. 

The ladies went down together, 
and found Vizard ready. Mr. Severne 
was not in the room. Zoe inquired 
after him. 

“Gone to get a sun-shade,” said 
Vizard. 

“There!” said Zoe to Fanny, in a 
triumphant whisper. “ What is that 
for but to go with us ?” 

Fanny made no reply. 

They waited some time for Severne 
and his sun-shade. 

At last Vizard looked at his watch, 
and said they had only five minutes to 
spare. “ Come down, and look after 
him. He must be somewhere about.” 

They went down, and looked for 
him all over the Platz. He was not 
to be seen. At last Vizard took out 
his watch, and said, “ It is some mis- 
understanding : we can’t wait any 
longer.” 

So he and Zoe went to the train. 
Neither said much on the way to 


Homburg ; for they were both brood- 
ing. Vizard's good sense and right 
feeling were beginning to sting him a 
little for calling on the Klosking at 
all, and a great deal for using the en- 
thusiasm of an inexperienced girl to 
obtain an introduction to a public sing- 
er. He sat moody in his corner, tak- 
ing himself to task. Zoe’s thoughts 
ran in quite another channel ; but she 
was no easier in her mind. It really 
seemed as if Severne had given her 
the slip. Probably he would explain 
his conduct; but, then, that Fanny 
should foretell he would avoid her 
company, rather than call on Made- 
moiselle Klosking, and that Fanny 
should be right — this made the thing 
serious, and galled Zoe to the quick : 
she was angry with Fanny for proph- 
esying truly ; she was rather angry 
with Severne for not coming, and 
more angry with him for making good 
Fanny’s prediction. 

Zoe Vizard was a good girl and a 
generous girl, but she was not a hum- 
ble girl : she had a great deal of pride, 
and her share of vanity, and here both 
were galled. Besides that, it seemed 
to her most strange and dishearten- 
ing, that Fanny, who did not love Sev- 
erne, should be able to foretell his con- 
duct better than she, who did love him : 
such foresight looked like greater in- 
sight. All this humiliated and also 
puzzled her strangely ; and so she sat 
brooding as deeply as her brother. 

As for Vizard, bv the time they got 
to Homburg he had made up his mind. 
As they got out of the train, he said, 
“ Look here, I am ashamed of myserf. 
I have a right to play the fool alone ; 
but I have no business to drag my sis- 
ter into it. We will go somewhere 
else. There are lots of things to see. 
I give up the Klosking.” 

Zoe stared at him a moment, and 
then answered, with cold decision, 
“No, dear; you must allow me to 
call on her, now I am here. She 
won’t bite me." 

“ Well, but it is a strange thing to 
do.” 


58 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


“What does that matter? We are 
abroad. ” 

“ Come, Zoe, I am much obliged to 
you; but give it up.” 

“ No, dear.” 

Harrington smiled at her pretty per- 
emptoriness, and misunderstood it. 
“This is carrying sisterly love a long 
way,” said he. “ I must try and rise to 
your level. I won’t go with you.” 

“Then I shall go alone.” 

“ What if I forbid you, miss ?” 

She tapped him on the cheek with 
her fingers. “ Don’t affect the tyrant, 
dear; you can’t manage it. Fanny 
said something that has mortified me. 
I shall go. You can do as you like. 
But, stop ; where does she live ?” 

“Suppose I decline to tell you? I 
am seized with a virtuous fit — a reg- 
ular paroxysm.” 

“ Then I shall go to the opera and 
inquire, dear. But ” (coaxingly) “you 
will tell me, dear.” 

“There,” said Harrington, “you 
wicked, tempting girl, my sham virtue 
has oozed away, and my real mania 
triumphs. She lives at The Golden 
Star. I was weak enough to send 
Harris in last night to learn.” 

Zoe smiled. 

He hailed a conveyance ; and they 
started at once for The Golden Star. 

“Zoe,” said Harrington, gravely, 
“something tells me I am going to 
meet my fate.” 

“All the better,” said Zoe. “I wish 
yon to meet your fate. My love for 
my brother is not selfish. I am sure 
she is a good woman. Perhaps I may 
find out something.” 

“ About what ?” 

“ Oh, never mind.” 


CHAPTER VIII. 

All this time Ina Klosking was re- 
hearsing at the theatre, quite uncon- 
scious of the impending visit. A roy- 
al personage had commanded “II 
Barbiere,” the part of Rosina to be re- 


stored to the original key. It was 
written for a contralto, but transposed 
by the influence of Grisi. 

Having no performance that night, 
they began to rehearse rather later 
than usual, and did not leave off till a 
quarter to four o’clock. Ina, who suf- 
fered a good deal at rehearsals from 
the inaccuracy and apathy of the peo- 
ple, went home fagged, and with her 
throat parched — so does a bad re- 
hearsal affect all good and earnest 
artists. 

She ordered a cutlet, with potato 
chips, and lay down on the sofa. 
While she was reposing, came Joseph 
Ashmead, to cheer her, with good 
photographs of her, taken the day be- 
fore. She smiled gratefully at his zeal. 
He also reminded her that he had or- 
ders to take her to the Kursaal : he 
said the tables would be well filled 
from five o’clock till quite late, there 
being no other entertainment on foot 
that evening. 

Ina thanked him, and said she would 
not miss going on any account ; but 
she was rather fatigued and faint. 

“ Oh, I’ll wait for you as long as you 
like,” said Ashmead, kindly. 

“No, my good comrade,” said Ina. 
“ I will ask you to go to the manager 
and get me a little money, and then to 
the Kursaal and secure me a place at 
the table in the largest room. There 
1 will join you. If he is not there — 
and I am not so mad as to think he 
will be there — I shall risk a few pieces 
myself, to be nearer him in mind.” 

This amazed Ashmead ; it was so 
unlike her. “ You are joking,” said 
he. “Why, if you lose five napole- 
ons at play, it will be your death ; you 
will grizzle so.” 

“Yes; but I shall not lose. I am 
too unlucky in love to lose at cards. 
1 mean to play this afternoon ; and 
never again in all my life. Sir, I am 
resolved.” 

“Oh, if you are resolved, there is 
no more to be said. I won’t run my 
head against a brick wall.” 

I Ina, being half a foreigner, thought 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


59 


tliis rather brusque. She looked at 
him askant, and said, quietly, “Oth- 
ers, besides me, can be stubborn, and 
get their own way, while speaking the 
language of submission. Not I in- 
vented volition.” 

With this flea in his ear, the faith- 
ful Joseph went off, chuckling, and 
obtained an advance from the man- 
ager, and then proceeded to the prin- 
cipal gaming-table, and, after waiting 
some time, secured a chair, which he 
kept for his chief. 

An hour went by ; an hour and a 
half. He was obliged, for very shame, 
to bet. This he did, five francs at a 
time ; and his risk was so small, and 
his luck so even, that by degrees he 
was drawn into conversation with his 
neighbor, a young swell, who was 
watching the run of the colors, and 
betting in silver, and pricking a card, 
preparatory to going in for a great 
coup. Meantime he favored Mr. Ash- 
mead with his theory of chances, and 
Ashmead listened very politely to ev- 
ery word ; because he was rather 
proud of the other’s notice : he was 
so handsome, well dressed, and well 
spoken. 

Meantime Ina Klosking snatched a 
few minutes’ sleep, as most artists can 
in the afternoon, and was awakened 
by the servant bringing in her frugal 
repast, a cutlet and a pint of Bor- 
deaux. 

On her plate he brought her a large 
card, on which was printed “Miss Zoe 
Vizard.” This led to inquiries, and he 
told her a lady of superlative beauty 
had called and left that card. Ina 
asked for a description. 

“Ah, madame,” said Karl, “do not 
expect details from me. I was too 
dazzled, and struck by lightning, to 
make an inventory of her charms.” 

“At least you can tell me was she 
dark or fair.” 

“Madame, she was dark as night; 
but glorious as the sun. Her earthly 
abode is the liussie, at Frankfort ; 
blest hotel!” 

“ Did she tell you so?” 


‘ ‘ Indirectly. She wrote on the card 
with the smallest pencil I have hither- 
to witnessed : the letters are faint, the 
pencil being inferior to the case, which 
was golden. Nevertheless, as one is 
naturally curious to learn whence a 
bright vision has emerged, I permitted 
myself to decipher.” 

“Your curiosity was natural,” said 
Ina, dryly. “ I will detain you with 
no more questions.” 

She put the card carefully away, 
and eat her modest repast. Then she 
made her afternoon toilet, and walked, 
slowly and pensively, to the Kursaal. 

Nothing there was new to her, ex- 
cept to be going to the table without 
the man on whom it was her misfort- 
une to have wasted her heart of gold. 

I think, therefore, it would be bet- 
ter for me to enter the place in com- 
pany with our novices ; and, indeed, 
we must, or we shall derange the true 
order of time and sequence of inci- 
dents ; for, please observe, all the En- 
glish ladies of our story met at the 
Kursaal while Ina was reposing on 
her sofa. 

The first-comers were Zoe and Har- 
rington. They entered the noble hall, 
inscribed their names, and, by that 
simple ceremony, were members of a 
club, compared with which the great- 
est clubs in London are petty things : 
a club with spacious dining-rooms, 
ball-rooms, concert-rooms, gambling- 
rooms, theatre, and delicious gardens. 
The building, that combined so many 
rich treats, was colossal in size, and 
glorious with rich colors and gold laid 
on with Oriental profusion, and some- 
times with Oriental taste. 

Harrington took his sister through 
the drawing-rooms first ; and she ad- 
mired the unusual loftiness of the 
rooms, the blaze of white and gold, 
and of celadon and gold, and the great 
Russian lustres, and the mighty mir- 
rors. But when they got to the din- 
ing-room she was enchanted. That 
lofty and magnificent salon , with its 
daring mixture of red and black, and 
green and blue, all melted into har-* 


60 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


mony by the rivevs of gold that ran 
boldly among them, went to her very 
heart. A Greek is half an Oriental ; 
and Zoe had what may be called the 
courage of color. “Glorious!” she 
cried, and clasped her hands. “And 
see! what a background to the eme- 
rald grass outside and the ruby flow- 
ers. They seem to come into the room 
through those monster windows.” 

“Splendid!” said Harrington, to 
whom all this was literally Greek. 
“ I’m so excited, I’ll order dinner.” 

“Dinner!” said Zoe, disdainfully ; 
and sat down and eyed the Moresque 
walls around her, and the beauties of 
nature outside, and brought them to- 
gether in one picture. 

Harrington was a long time in con- 
clave with M. Chevet. Then Zoe be- 
came impatient. 

“ Oh, do leave off ordering dinner,” 
said she, “and take me out to that 
other paradise.” 

The Chevet shrugged his shoulders 
with pity. Vizard shrugged his too, 
to soothe him ; and, after a few more 
hurried words, took the lover of color 
into tho garden. It was delicious, 
with green slopes, and rich foliage, 
and flowers, and enlivened by bright 
silk dresses, sparkling fitfully among 
the green leaves, or flaming out bold- 
ly in the sun ; and, as luck would h; - : 
it, before Zoe had taken ten steps upon 
the greensward, the band of fifty mu- 
sicians struck up, and played as fifty 
men rarely play together out of Ger- 
many. 

Zoe was enchanted. She walked 
on air, and beamed as bright as any 
flower in the place. 

After her first ejaculation at the 
sudden music, she did not speak for a 
good while ; her content was so great. 
At last she said, “And do they leave 
this paradise to gamble in a room ?” 

“Leave it? They sh n it. The 
gamblers despise the flowers.” 

“ How perverse people are ! Ex- 
citement ! Who wants any more than 
this ?” 

“ Zoe,” said Vizard, “ innocent ex- 


citement can never compete with vi- 
cious.” 

“ What, is it really wicked to play ?” 

“I don’t know about wicked ; you 
girls always run to the biggest word. 
But, if avarice is a vice, gambling can 
not be virtuous ; for the root of gam- 
bling is mere avarice, weak avarice. 
Come, my young friend, as were quite 
alone, I’ll drop Thersites, and talk 
sense to you, for once. Child, there 
are two roads to wealth ; one is by the 
way of industry, skill, vigilance, and 
self-denial; and these are virtues, 
though sometimes they go with tricks 
of trade, hardness of heart, and taking 
advantage of misfortune, to buy cheap 
and sell dear. The other road to 
wealth is by bold speculation, with 
risk of proportionate loss; in short, 
by gambling with cards, or without 
them. Now, look into the mind of the 
gambler — he wants to make money, 
contrary to nature, and unjustly. He 
wants to be rewarded without merit, 
to make a fortune in a moment, and 
without industry, vigilance, true skill, 
or self-denial. ‘ A penny saved is a 
penny gained ’ does not enter his 
creed. Strip the thing of its disguise, 
it is avarice, sordid avarice ; and t 
call it weak avarice, because the gam- 
bler relies on chance alone, yet accepts 
uneven chances, and hopes that Fort- 
une will be as much in love with him 
as he is with himself. What silly 
egotism ! You admire the Knrsaal, 
and you are right; then do just ask 
yourself why is there nothing to pay 
for so many expensive enjoyments : 
and very little to pay for concerts and 
balls ; low prices at the opera, which 
never pays its own expenses ; even 
Chevet’s dinners are reasonable, if you 
avoid his sham Joliannisberg. All 
these cheap delights, the gold, the 
colors, the garden, the music, the 
lights, are paid for by the losses of 
feeble-minded Avarice. But, there — 
I said all this to Ned Severne, and I 
might as well have preached sense to 
the wind.” 

“Harrington, I will not play. I 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


am much happier walking with my 
good brother — ” 

“Faute de mieux.” 

Zoe blushed, but would not hear — 
“And it is so good of you to make a 
friend of me, and talk sense. Oh ! 
see — a lady with two blues ! Come 
and look at her.” 

Before they had taken five steps, 
Zoe stopped short, and said, “It is 
Fanny Dover, I declare. She has not 
seen us yet. She is short-sighted. 
Come here.” And the impetuous 
maid dragged him off behind a tuft of 
foliage. 

When she had got him there she 
said hotly that it was too bad. 

“Oh, is it?” said he, very calmly. 
“What?” 

“Why, don’t you see what she has 
done ? You, so sensible, to be so slow 
about women’s ways ; and you are al- 
ways pretending to know them. Why, 
she has gone and bought that costume 
with the money you gave her to play 
with.” 

“Sensible girl!” 

“Dishonest girl, I call her.” 

“ There you go to your big words. 
No, no. A little money was given 
her for a bad purpose. She has used 
it for a frivolous one. That is ‘ a step 
in the right direction ’ — jargon of the 
day.” 

“But to receive money for one 
purpose, and apply it to another, is — 
what do you cail it — chose ? — de- 
tournement desfonds — what is the En- 
glish word ? I’ve been abroad till I’ve 
forgotten English. Oh, I know— em- 
bezzlement.” 

“Well, that is a big word for a 
small transaction ; you have not dug 
in the mine of the vernacular for 
nothing.” 

“Harrington, if you don’t mind, I 
do ; so please come. I'll talk to her.” 

“Stop a moment, ’’said Vizard, very 
gravely. “ You will not say one word 
to her.” 

“And why not, pray?” 

“Because it would be unworthy 
of us, and cruel to her ; barbarously 


61 

cruel. What ! call her to account be- 
fore that old woman and me?” 

“Why not? She is flaunting her 
blues before you two, and plenty more. ” 

“Feminine logic, Zoe. The point 
is this — she is poor. You must know 
that. This cotnes of poverty and love 
of dress ; not of dishonesty and love 
of dress ; and just ask yourself, is 
there a creature that ought to be pitied 
more, and handled more delicately, 
than a poor lady ? Why, you would 
make her writhe with shame and dis- 
tress! Well, I do think there is not 
a single wild animal so cruel to an- 
other wild animal as a woman is to a 
woman. You are cruel to one another 
by instinct. But I appeal to your rea- 
son — if you have any. ” 

Zoe’s eyes filled. “ You are right,” 
said she, humbly. “Thank you for 
thinking for me. I will not say a 
word to her before you” 

“That is a good girl. But, come 
now, why say a word at all ?” 

“Oh, it is no use your demanding 
impossibilities, dear. I could no more 
help speaking to her than I could fly; 
and don’t go fancying she will care a 
pin what 1 say, if I don’t say it before 
a gentleman .” 

Having given him this piece of in- 
formation, she left her ambush, and 
proceeded to meet the all-unconscious 
blue girl; but, even as they went, 
Vizard returned to his normal condi- 
tion, and doled out, rather indolently, 
that they were out on pleasure, and 
might possibly miss the object of the 
excursion, if they were to encourage 
a habit of getting into rages about 
nothing. 

Zoe was better than her word. 
She met Fanny with open admira- 
tion : to be sure, she knew that apathy, 
or even tranquillity, on first meeting 
the blues, would be instantly set down 
to envy. 

“And where did you get it, dear?” 

“At quite a small shop.” 

“French?” 

“Oh no; I think she was an Aus- 
trian. This is not a French mixture : 


62 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


loud, discordant colors, that is the 
French taste.” 

“Here is heresy,” said Vizard. 
“ Why, I thought the French beat the 
world in dress.” 

“Yes, dear,” said Zoe, “ in form and 
pattern. But Fanny is right ; they 
make mistakes in color. They are 
terribly afraid of scarlet ; but they are 
afraid of nothing else : and many of 
their mixtures are as discordant to the 
eve as Wagner’s music to the ear. 
Now, after all, scarlet is the king of 
colors ; and there is no harm in King 
Scarlet, if you treat him with respect, 
and put a modest subject next to him.” 

“Gypsy locks, for instance,” sug- 
gested Fanny, slyly. 

Miss Maitland owned herself puz- 
zled. “ In my day, ” said she, “ no one 
ever thought of putting blue upon blue; 
but really, somehow, it looks well.” 

“May I tell you why, aunt? — be- 
cause the dress maker had a real eye, 
and has chosen the right tints of blue. 
It is all nonsense about one color not 
going with another. Nature defies 
that ; and how ? by choosing the very 
tints of each color that will go togeth- 
er. The sweetest room I ever saw 
was painted by a great artist; and, 
do you know, he had colored the ceil- 
ing blue and the walls green : and I 
assure you the effect was heavenly : 
but, then, he had chosen the exact tints 
of green and blue that would go to- 
gether. The draperies were between 
crimson and maroon. But there’s an- 
other thing in Fanny’s dress ; it is vel- 
vet. Now, blue velvet is blue to the 
mind ; but it is not blue to the eye. 
You try and paint blue velvet ; you 
will be surprised how much white you 
must lay on. The high lights of all 
velvets are white. This white helps 
to blend the two tints of blue.” 

“ This is very instructive,” said Viz- 
ard. “ I was not aware I had a sis- 
ter, youthful, but profound. Let us go 
in and dine.” 

Fanny demurred. She said she be- 
lieved Miss Maitland wished to take 
one turn round the grounds first. 


Miss Maitland stared, but assented 
in a mechanical way ; and they com- 
menced their promenade. 

Zoe hung back, and beckoned her 
brother. “ Miss Maitland !” said she, 
with such an air. u She wants to 
show her blues to all the world and 
his wife.” 

“Very natural,” said Vizard. “ So 
would you, if you were in a scarlet 
gown, with a crimson cloak.” 

Zoe laughed heartily at this, and for- 
gave Fanny her new dress : but she 
had a worse bone than that to pick 
with her. 

It was a short but agreeable prom- 
enade to Zoe, for now they were alone, 
her brother, instead of sneering, com- 
plimented her. 

“ Never you mind my imperti- 
nence,” said he ; “ the truth is, I am 
proud of you. You are an observer.” 

“Me? Oh— in color.” 

“Never mind: an observer is an 
observer ; and genuine observation is 
not so common. Men see and hear 
with their prejudices, and not their 
senses. Now we are going to those 
gaming-tables. At first, of course, 
you will play; but, as soon as ever 
you are cleaned out, observe! _Let 
nothing escape that woman’s eye of 
yours : and so we’ll get something for 
our money.” 

“ Harrington,” said the girl, proud- 
ly, “ I will be all eye and ear.” 

Soon after this they went in to din- 
ner. Zoe cast her eyes round for 
Severne, and was manifestly disap- 
pointed at his not meeting them even 
there. 

As for Fanny, she had attracted 
wonderful attention in the garden, and 
was elated ; her conscience did not 
prick her in the least, for such a trifle 
as detournement des fonds ; and pub- 
lic admiration did not improve her. 
She was sprightly and talkative as 
usual ; but now she was also a trifle 
brazen, and pert all round. 

And so the dinner passed, and they 
proceeded to the gaming-tables. 

Miss Maitland and Zoe led. Fan- 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


63 


ny and Harrington followed : for Miss 
Dover, elated by the blues — though, 
by-the-bye, one hears of them as de- 
pressing — and encouraged by admi- 
ration and Chevet’s violet - perfumed 
St. Perav, took Harrington’s arm, real- 
ly as if it belonged to her. 

They went into the library first, and, 
after a careless inspection, came to the 
great attraction of the place. They 
entered one of the gambling-rooms. 

The first impression was disappoint- 
ing. There were two very long tables, 
rounded off' at the ends : one for trente 
et quarante and one for roulette. At 
each table were seated a number of 
persons, and others standing behind 
them. Among the persons seated 
was the dealer, or, in roulette , the 
spinner. This official sat in the cen- 
tre, flanked on each side by crou- 
piers with rakes ; but at each end of 
the table there was also a croupier with 
his rake. 

The rest were players or lookers-on ; 
most of whom, by well-known gra- 
dations of curiosity and weakness, to 
describe which minutely would be to 
write a little comedy that others have 
already written, were drawn into play- 
ing at last. So fidgets the moth about 
the candle before he makes up what, 
no doubt, the poor little soul calls his 
mind. 

Our little party stopped first at 
trente et quarante , and Zoe com- 
menced her observations. Instead of 
the wild excitement she had heard of, 
there was a subdued air, a forced qui- 
et, especially among the seated players. 
A stern etiquette presided, and the 
gamblers shrouded themselves in well- 
bred stoicism — losing without open 
distress or ire, winning without open 
exultation. The old hands, especial- 
ly, began play with a padlock on the 
tongue and a mask upon the face. 
There are masks, however, that do not 
hide the eye ; and Miss Vizard caught 
some flashes that escaped the masks 
even then at the commencement of the 
play. Still, external stoicism prevail- 
ed, on the whole, and had a fixed ex- 


ample in the failleur and the crou- 
piers. Flaying many hours every day 
in the year but Good-Friday, and al- 
ways with other people’s money, these 
men had parted with passion, and al- 
most with sensation ; they had become 
skillful automata, chanting a stave, 
and raking up or scattering haycocks 
of gold, which to them were counters. 

It was with the monotonous voice 
of an automaton they intoned, 

“Faites le jeu, messieu, messieu.” 

Then, after a pause of ten seconds, 

“Le jeu est fait, messieu.” 

Then, after two seconds, 

“ Rien ne va plus.” 

Then mumble — mumble — mumble. 

Then, “La! Rouge perd et cou- 
leur,” or whatever might be the re- 
sult. 

Then the croupiers first raked in the 
players’ losses with vast expedition ; 
next, the croupiers in charge of the 
funds chucked the precise amount of 
the winnings on to each stake with un- 
erring dexterity and the indifference 
of machines ; and the chant recom- 
menced / 4 Faites le jeu, messieu.” 

Pause, ten seconds. 

“Le jeu est fait, messieu.” 

Pause, two seconds. 

“ Rien ne va plus.” 

The tailleur dealt, and the croupier 
intoned, “Lk! Rouge gagne et cou- 
leur perd the mechanical raking and 
dexterous chucking followed. 

This, with a low buzzing, and the 
deadened jingle of gold upon green 
cloth, and the light grating of the 
croupiers’ rakes, was the first impres- 
sion upon Zoe’s senses ; but the mere 
game did not monopolize her atten- 
tion many seconds. There were oth- 
er things better worth noting : the 
great varieties of human type that a 
single passion had brought together in 
a small German town. Her ear was 
regaled with such a polyglot murmur 
as she had read of in Genesis, but had 
never witnessed before. 

Here were the sharp Tuscan and 
the mellow Roman ; the sibilation of 
England, the brogue of Ireland, the 


64 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


shibboleth of the Minories, the twang j 
of certain American States, the gut- 
tural expectoration of Germany, the 
nasal emphasis of France, and even 
the modulated Hindoostanee, and the 
sonorous Spanish, all mingling. 

The types of face were as various 
as the tongues. 

Here were the green-eyed Tartar, 
the black-eyed Italian, and the gray- 
eyed Saxon; faces all cheek-bones, 
and faces no cheek-bones; the red 
Arabian, the fair Dane, and the dark 
Hindoo. 

Her woman’s eye seized another 
phenomenon — the hands. Not na- 
tions only, but varieties of the animal 
kingdom were represented. Here were 
the white hands of fair women, and the 
red paws of obese shop-keepers, and 
the yellow, bird-like claws of old with- 
ered gamesters, all stretched out, side 
by side, in strange contrast, to place 
the stakes or scratch in the winnings ; 
and often the winners put their palms 
or paws on their heap of gold, just as 
a dog does on a bone when other dogs 
are nigh. 

But what Zoe’s eye rested on long- 
est were the costume and deportment 
of the ladies. A few were in good 
taste ; others aimed at a greater varie- 
ty of beautiful colors than the fair have, 
up to this date, succeeded in combin- 
ing, without inflicting more pain on 
the beholders than a beneficent Cre- 
ator — so far as we can judge by his 
own system of color — intended the cul- 
tivated eye to suffer. Example — as 
the old writers used to say — one lady 
fired the air in primrose satin, with 
red-velvet trimming. This mild mixt- 
ure re -appeared on her head in a 
primrose hat with a red feather. A 
gold chain, so big that it would have 
done for a felon instead of a fool, en- 
circled her neck, and was weighted 
with innumerable lockets, which in 
size and inventive taste resembled a 
poached egg, and betrayed the insular 
goldsmith. A train three yards long 
completed this gorgeous figure. She 
had commenced life a shrimp-girl, and 


pushed a dredge before her, instead of 
pulling a silken besom after her. An- 
other stately queen (with an “a”) 
heated the atmosphere with a burnous 
of that color the French call jlamme 
d'enfer , and cooled it with a green 
bonnet. A third appeared to have 
been struck with the beauty of a paint- 
er’s palette, and the skill with which 
its colors mix before the brush spoils 
them. Green body, violet skirts, rose- 
colored trimmings, purple sleeves, 
light-green boots, lavender gloves. A 
shawl all gauze and gold, flounced like 
a petticoat ; a bonnet so small, and 
red feather so enormous and all-pre- 
dominant, that a peacock seemed to 
be sitting on a hedge-sparrow’s nest. 

Zoe suspected these polychromatic 
ladies at a glance, and observed their 
manners, in a mistrustful spirit, care- 
fully. She was little surprised, though 
a good deal shocked, to find that some 
of them seemed familiar, and almost 
jocular, with the croupiers ; and that, 
although they did not talk loud, being 
kept in order by the general etiquette, 
they rustled and fidgeted and played 
in a devil-may-care sort of manner. 
This was in great measure accounted 
for by the circumstance that they were 
losing other people’s money : at all 
events, they often turned their heads 
over their shoulders, and applied for 
fresh funds to their male companions. 

Zoe blushed at all this, and said to 
Vizard, “ I should like to see the oth- 
er rooms.” She whispered to Miss 
Maitland, “Surely they are not very 
select in this one.” 

“Lead on,” said Vizard ; “ that is 
the way.” 

Fanny had not parted with his arm 
all this time. As they followed the 
others, he said, “But she will find it 
is all the same thing.” 

Fanny langhed in his face. “Don’t 
you see? C’est la chasse au Severne 
qui commence.” 

“ En voila un severe,” replied he. 

She was mute. She had not learn- 
ed that sort of French in her finish- 
ing-school. I forgive it. 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


65 


The next room was the same thing 
over again. 

Zoe stood a moment and drank ev- 
ery thing in, then turned to Vizard, 
blushed, and said, “May we play a 
little now ?” 

“ Why, of course.” 

“Fanny!” 

“No; you begin, dear. We will 
stand by and wish you success. ” 

“You are a coward,” said Zoe, 
loftily ; and went to the table with 
more changes of color than veteran 
lancers betray in charging infantry. 
It was the roulette table she chose. 
That seems a law of her sex. The 
true solution is not so profound as 
some that have been offered. It is 
this : trente et quarante is not only 
unintelligible, but uninteresting. At 
roulette there is a pictorial object and 
dramatic incident ; the board, the turn- 
ing of the moulinet , and the swift rev- 
olutions of an ivory ball, its lowered 
speed, its irregular bounds, and its 
final settlement in one of the many 
holes, numbered and colored. Here 
the female understanding sees some- 
thing it can grasp, and, above all, the 
female eye catches something pictorial 
and amusing outside the loss or gain ; 
and so she goes, by her nature, to rou- 
lette, which is a greater swindle than 
the other. 

Zoe staked five pounds on No. 21, 
for an excellent reason; she was in 
her twenty-first year. The ball was 
so illogical as to go into No. 3, and 
she lost. She stood by her number, 
and lost again. She lost thirteen 
times in succession. 

The fourteenth time the ball rolled 
into 21, and the croupier handed her 
thirty- five times her stake, and a lot 
more for color. 

Her eye flashed, and her cheek 
flushed, and I suppose she was tempt- 
ed to bet more heavily, for she said, 
“No. That will never happen to me 
again, I know;” and she rose, the 
richer by several napoleons, 'and said, 
“Now let us go to another.” 

“Humph!” said Vizard. “What 


an extraordinary girl ! She will give 
the devil more trouble than most of 
you. Here’s precocious prudence.” 

Fanny laughed in his face. “ C’est 
la chasse qui recommence,” said she. 

I ought to explain that when she 
was in England she did not inter- 
lard her discourse with French scraps. 
She was not so ill-bred. But abroad 
she had got into a way of it, through 
being often compelled to speak French. 

Vizard appreciated the sagacity of 
the remark, but he did not like the 
lady any the better for it. He medi- 
tated in silence. He remembered 
that, when they were in the garden, 
Zoe had hung behind, and interpreted 
Fanny ill-naturedly; and here was 
Fanny at the same game, literally 
backbiting, or back- nibbling, at all 
events. Said he to himself, “And 
these two are friends ! female friends. ” 
And he nursed his misogyny in si- 
lence. 

They came into a very noble room, 
the largest of all, with enormous mir- 
rors down to the ground, and a ceil- 
ing blazing with gold, and the air glit- 
tering with lustres. Two very large 
tables, and a distinguished company 
at each, especially at the trente et 
quarante. 

Before our little party had taken 
six steps into the room, Zoe stood like 
a pointer; and Fanny backed. Should 
these terms seem disrespectful, let 
Fanny bear the blame. It is her ap- 
plication of the word “chasse” that 
drew down the simile. 

Yes, there sat Ned Severne, talk- 
ing familiarly to Joseph Ashmead, and 
preparing to “put the pot on,” as he 
called it. 

Now Zoe was so far gone that the 
very sight of Severne was a balsam to 
her. She had a little bone to pick 
with him ; and, when he was out of 
sight, the bone seemed pretty large. 
But when she saw his adorable face, 
unconscious, as it seemed, of wrong, 
the bone faded, and the face shone. 

Her own face cleared at the sight 
of him : she turned back to Fanny 


66 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


and Vizard, avch and smiling, and put 
her finger to her mouth, as much as 
to say, “ Let us have some fun. We 
have caught our truant : let us watch 
him, unseen, a little, before we burst 
on him." 

Vizard enjoyed this, and encouraged 
her with a nod. 

The consequence was that Zoe drop- 
ped Miss Maitland’s arm, who took 
that opportunity to turn up her nose, 
and began to creep up like a young 
cat after a bird ; taking a step, and 
then pausing ; then another step, and 
a long pause ; and still with her eye 
fixed on Severne. He did not see 
her, nor her companions, partly be- 
cause they were not in front of him, 
but approaching at a sharp angle, and 
also because he was just then begin- 
ning to bet heavily on his system. 
By this means, two progressive events 
went on contemporaneously : the arch 
but cat-like advance of Zoe, with 
pauses, and the betting of Severne, in 
which he gave himself the benefit of 
his system. 

Noir having been the last to win, 
he went against the alternation, and 
put fifty pounds on noir. Red won. 
Then, true to his system, he doubled 
on the winning color. One hundred 
pounds on red. Black won. He 
doubled on black, and red won ; and 
there were four hundred pounds of his 
five hundred gone in five minutes. 

On this proof that the likeliest thing 
to happen — viz., alternation of the 
color — does sometimes happen, Severne 
lost heart. 

He turned to Ashmead, with all the 
superstition of a gambler, “ For God’s 
sake, bet for me!” said he. He 
clutched his own hair convulsively, in 
a struggle with his mania, and pre- 
vailed so far as to thrust fifty pounds 
into his own pocket, to live on, and 
gave Ashmead five tens. 

“Well, but,” said Ashmead, “you 
must tell me what to do.” 

“No, no. Bet your own way, for 
me. ” 

He had hardly uttered these words, 


when he seemed to glare across the 
table at the great mirror, and, sudden- 
ly putting his handkerchief to his 
mouth, he made a bolt sideways, 
plunged amidst the by-standers, and 
emerged only to dash into a room at 
the side. 

As he disappeared, a lady came 
slowly and pensively forward from the 
outer door; lifted her eyes as she 
neared the table, saw a vacant chair, 
and glided into it, revealing to Zoe 
Vizard and her party a noble face, 
not so splendid and animated as on 
the stage, for its expression was 
slumbering ; still it was the face of 
Ina Klosking. 

No transformation trick was ever 
done more neatly and smoothly than 
this, in which, nevertheless, the per- 
formers acted without concert. 

Severne fled out, and the Klosking 
came slowly in ; yet no one had time 
to take the seat, she glided into it so 
soon after Severne had vacated it. 

Zoe Vizard and her friends stared 
after the flying Severne, then stared at 
the new-comer, and then turned round 
and stared at each other, in mutual 
amazement and inquiry. 

What was the meaning of this 
double incident, that resembled a con- 
jurer’s trick ? 

Having looked at her companions, 
and seen only her own surprise re- 
flected, Zoe Vizard fixed her eyes, like 
burning-glasses, upon Ina Klosking. 

Then that lady thickened the mys- 
tery. She seemed very familiar with 
the man Severne had been so familiar 
with. 

That man contributed his share to 
the multiplying mystery. He had a 
muddy complexion, hair the color of 
dirt, a long nose, a hatchet face, mean 
little eyes, and was evidently not a 
gentleman. He wore a brown velvet- 
een shooting-coat, with a magenta tie 
that gave Zoe a pain in the eye. She 
had alrea'dy felt sorry to see her Sev- 
erne was acquainted with such a man. 

I He seemed to her the ne plus ultra of 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


vulgarity ; and now, behold, the artist, 
the woman she had so admired, was 
equally familiar with the same objec- 
tionable person. 

To appreciate the hopeless puzzle 
of Zoe Vizard, the reader must be on 
his guard against his own knowledge. 
He knows that Severne and Ashmead 
were two Bohemians, who had struck 
up acquaintance, all in a minute, that 
very evening. But Zoe had not this 
knowledge, and she could not possibly 
divine it. The whole thing was pre- 
sented to her senses thus : a vulgar 
man, with a brown velveteen shooting- 
coat and a red-hot tie, was a mutual 
friend of the gentlemanly Severne and 
the dignified Klosking. Severne left 
the mutual friend ; Mademoiselle Klos- 
king joined the mutual friend ; and 
there she sat, where Severne had sat 
a moment ago, by the side of their 
mutual friend. 

All manner of thoughts and sur- 
mises thronged upon Zoe Vizard ; but 
each way of accounting for the mys- 
tery contradicted some plain fact or 
other; so she was driven at last to a 
woman’s remedy. She would wait, 
and watch. Severne would probably 
come back, and somehow furnish the 
key. Meantime her eye was not like- 
ly to leave the Klosking, nor her ear 
to miss a syllable the Klosking might 
utter. 

She whispered to Vizard, in a very 
peculiar tone, “I will play at this ta- 
ble,” and stepped up to it, with the 
word. 

The duration of such beauty as Zoe’s 
is proverbially limited ; but the limit 
to its power, while it does last, has not 
yet been discovered. It is a fact that, 
as soon as she came close to the ta- 
ble, two male gamblers looked up, 
saw her, wondered at her, and actual- 
ly jumped up and offered their seats: 
she made a courteous inclination of 
the head, and installed Miss Maitland 
in one seat, without reserve. She put 
a little gold on the table, and asked 
Miss Maitland, in a whisper, to play 
for her. She herself had neither eye 


67 

nor ear except for Ina Klosking. 
That lady was having a discussion, 
sotto voce, with Ashmead ; and if she 
had been one of your mumblers whose 
name is legion, even Zoe’s swift ear 
could have caught little or nothing. 
But when a voice has volume, and the 
great habit of articulation has been 
brought to perfection, the words travel 
surprisingly. 

Zoe heard the lady say to Ashmead, 
scarcely above her breath, “ Well, but 
if he requested you to bet for him, 
how can he blame you ?” 

Zoe could not catch Ashmead’s re- 
ply, but it was accompanied by a shake 
of the head ; so she understood him to 
object. 

Then, after a little more discussion, 
Ina Klosking said,“ What money have 
you of mine ?” 

Ashmead produced some notes. 

“Very well,” said the Klosking. 
“Now, I shall take my twenty -five 
pounds, and twenty-five pounds of his, 
and play. When he returns, we shall, 
at all events, have twenty-five pounds 
safe for him. I take the responsibil- 
ity.” 

“Oh,” thought Zoe; “then he is 
coming back. Ah, I shall see what 
all this means.” She felt sick at heart. 

Zoe Vizard was on the other side, 
but not opposite Mademoiselle Klos- 
king; she was considerably to the 
right hand ; and as the new - comer 
was much occupied, just at first, with 
Ashmead, who sat on her left, Zoe had 
time to dissect her, which she did with- 
out mercy. Well, her costume was 
beautifully made, and fitted on a sym- 
metrical figure ; but as to color, it was 
neutral — a warm French gray, and 
neither courted admiration nor risked 
censure : it was unpretending. Her 
lace collar was valuable, but not strik- 
ing. Her hair was beautiful, both in 
gloss and color, and beautifully, but 
neatly, arranged. Her gloves and 
wristbands were perfect. 

As every woman aims at appear- 
ance, openly or secretly, and every oth- 
er woman knows she does, Zoe did not 


08 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


look at this meek dress with male sim- 
plicity, unsuspicious of design, but ask- 
ed herself what was the leading motive ; 
and the question was no sooner asked 
than answered. “ She has dressed 
for her golden hair and her white 
throat. Her hair, her deep gray eyes, 
and her skin, are just like a flower: 
she has dressed herself as the modest 
stalk. SI is an artist.” 

At the same table were a Russian 
princess, an English countess, and a 
Bavarian duchess — all well dressed, 
upon the whole. But their dresses 
showed off their dresses ; the Klos- 
king’s showed off herself. And there 
was a native dignity, and, above all, a 
wonderful seemliness, about the Klos- 
king that inspired respect. Dress and 
deportment were all of a piece — decent 
and deep. 

While Zoe was picking her to pieces, 
Ina, having settled matters with Ash- 
mead, looked up, and, of course, took 
in every other woman who was in 
sight at a single sweep. She recog- 
nized Zoe directly, with a flush of 
pleasure; ,a sweet, bright expression 
broke over her face, and she bow'ed to 
her with a respectful cordiality that 
was captivating. Zoe yielded to the 
charm of manner, and bowed and 
smiled in return, though, till that mo- 
ment, she had been knitting her black 
brows at her in wonder and vague sus- 
picion. 

Ina trifled with the game, at first. 
Ashmead was still talking to her of 
the young swell and his system. He 
explained it to her, and how it had 
failed. “Not but what,” said he, 
“ there is a great deal in it most even- 
ings. But to-day there are no runs ; it 
is all turn and turn about. If it would 
rain, now, you would see a change.” 

“Well,” said Ina, “ I will bet a few 
pounds on red, then on black, till these 
runs begin.” 

During the above conversation, of 
which Zoe caught little, because Ash- 
mead was the chief speaker, she cast 
her eyes all round the table, and saw 
a curious assemblage of figures. 


There was a solemn Turk melting 
his piastres with admirable gravity ; 
there was the Russian princess ; and 
there was a lady, dressed in loud, in- 
congruous colors, such as once drew 
from a horrified modiste the cry, “Ah, 
Dieu ! quelle immoralite !” and that’s a 
fact. There was a Popish priest, look- 
ing sheepish as he staked his silver, 
and an Anglican rector, betting fivers, 
and as nonchalant , in the blest absence 
of his flock and the Baptist minister, 
as if he were playing at whist with the 
old Bishop of Norwich, who played a 
nightly rubber in my father’s day — and 
a very bad one. There was a French 
count, nearly six feet high, to whom 
the word “old” would have been un- 
just : he was antique, and had turned 
into bones and leather; but the hair 
on that dilapidated trunk was its own ; 
and Zoe preferred him much to the 
lusty old English beau beside him, 
with ivory teeth and ebon locks that 
cost a pretty penny. 

There was a fat, livid Neapolitan 
betting heavily ; there was a creole 
lady, with a fine oval face, rather sal- 
low, and eyes and hair as black as 
Zoe’s own. Indeed, the creole excell- 
ed her, by the addition of a little black 
fringe upon her upper lip that, prej- 
udice apart, became her very well. 
Her front hair was confined by two 
gold threads a little way apart, on 
which were fixed a singular ornament, 
the vivid eyes of a peacock’s tail set 
close together all round. It was glo^ 
rious, regal. The hussy should hav* 
been the Queen of Sheba, receiving 
Solomon, and showing her peacock’s 
eyes against his crown-jewels. Like 
the lilies of the field, these products 
of nature are bad to beat, as we say on 
Yorkshire turf. 

Indeed that frontlet was so beautiful 
and well placed, it drew forth glances 
of marked disdain from every lady 
within sight of it, Zoe excepted. She 
was placable. This was a lesson in 
color ; and she managed to forgive 
the teacher, in consideration of the les* 
son. 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


69 


Amidst the gaudier birds, there was 
a dove — a young lady, well dressed, 
with Quaker - like simplicity, in gray 
silk dress with no trimmings, a white 
silk bonnet and veil. Her face was 
full of virtues. Meeting her elsewhere, 
you would say “That is a good wife, 
a good daughter, and the making of a 
good mother.” Her expression at the 
table was thoughtful, and a little anx- 
ious ; but every now and then she 
turned her head to look for her hus- 
band, and gave him so sweet a smile 
of conjugal sympathy and affection as 
made Zoe almost pray they might win. 
The husband was an officer, a veteran, 
with grizzled hair and mustache, a col- 
onel who had commanded a brigade in 
action, but could only love and spoil 
his wife. He ought to have been her 
father, her friend, her commander, and 
marched her out of that “curse-all” 
to the top of Cader Idris, if need was. 
Instead of that, he stood behind her 
chair like her lackey all day : for this 
dove was as desperate a gambler as 
any in Europe. It was not that she 
bet very heavily, but that she bet ev- 
ery day and all day. She began in 
the afternoon, and played till midnight 
if there was a table going. She knew 
no day of religion — no day of rest. 
She won, and she lost : her own fort- 
une and her husband’s stood the mon- 
ey drain ; but how about the golden 
hours ? She was ’Dsing her youth and 
wasting her soul. Yet the adminis- 
tration gave her a warning ; they did 
not allow the irretrievable hours to be 
stolen from her with a noiseless hand. 
At All Souls’ College, Oxford, in the 
first quadrangle, grave, thoughtful men 
raised to the top story, two hundred 
years ago, a grand sun-dial, the largest, 
perhaps, and noblest in the kingdom. 
They set it on the face of the Quad, 
and wrote over the long pointers, in 
large letters of gold, these words, 
“Pereunt et imputantur,” which re- 
fer to the hours indicated below, and 
mean literally, “ They perish, and go 
down to our account;” but really im- 
ply a little more, viz., that “they are 


wasted, and go to our debit.” These 
are true words and big words — bigger 
than any royal commissioner has ut- 
tered up to date — and reach the mind 
through the senses, and have warned 
the scholars of many a generation not 
to throw away the seed-time of their 
youth, whicli never can come twice to 
any man. Well, the administration 
of the Kursaal conveyed to that lost. 
English dove and others a note of 
warning which struck the senses, as 
does the immortal warning emblazon- 
ed on the fair brow of that beautiful 
college ; only, in the Kursaal the warn- 
ing struck the ear, not the eye. They 
provided French clocks with a singu- 
larly clear metallic striking tick ; their 
blows upon the life of Time rang sharp 
above the chant, the mumble, and the 
jingle. These clocks seemed to cry 
aloud, and say of the hours, whose 
waste they recorded, “ Pere-unt-et- 
impu-tantur,pere-unt-et-impu-tantur.” 

Reckless of this protest, the waves 
of play rolled on, and ere long sucked 
all our characters but Vizard into the 
vortex. Zoe hazarded a sovereign on 
red, and won ; then two on black, and 
won ; then four on red, and won. 
She was launched, and Fanny too. 
They got excited, and bet higher; the 
croupiers pelted them with golden 
coins, and they began to pant and 
flush, and their eyes to gleam. The 
old gamblers’ eyes seem to have lost 
this power — they have grown fishy ; 
but the eyes of these female novices 
were a sight. Fanny’s, being light- 
gray, gleamed like a panther’s whose 
prey is within leap. Zoe’s dark orbs 
could not resemble any wild beast’s ; 
but they glowed with unholy fire ; and, 
indeed, all down the table was now 
seen that which no painter can convey 
— for his beautiful but contracted art 
confines him to a moment of time — 
and writers have strangely neglected 
to notice, viz., the progress of the coun- 
tenance under play. Many of the 
masks melted, as if they had been of 
wax, and the natural expressions 
forced their way ; some got flushed 


70 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


with triumph, others wild and haggard 
with their losses. One ghastly, glar- 
ing loser sat quite quiet, when his all 
was gone, but clenched his hands so 
that the nails ran into the flesh, and 
blood trickled : discovering which, a 
friend dragged him off like something 
dead. Nobody minded. 

The fat old beau got worried by his 
teeth, and pulled them out in a pet 
and pocketed them. 

Miss Maitland, who had begun with 
her gray hair in neat little curls, de- 
ranged one so with convulsive hand, 
that it came all down her cheek, and 
looked most rakish and unbecoming. 
Even Zoe and Fanny had turned from 
lambs to leopardesses — patches of 
red on each cheek, and eyes like red- 
hot coals. 

The colors had begun to run, and 
at first the players lost largely to the 
bank, with one exception. 

Ina Klosking discerned the change, 
and backed the winning color, then 
doubled on it twice. She did this so 
luckily three or four times that, though 
her single stake was at first only forty 
pounds, gold seemed to grow around 
her, and even notes to rise and make 
a cushion. She, too, was excited, 
though not openly ; her gloves were 
off, and her own lovely hand, the 
whitest in the room, placed the stakes. 
You might see a red spot on her cheek- 
bone, and a strange glint in her deep 
eye; but she could not do any thing 
that was not seemly. 

She played calmly, boldly, on the 
system that had cleared out Ned Sev- 
erne, and she won heavily, because 
she was in luck. It was her hour and 
her vein. 

By this time Zoe and Fanny were 
cleaned out; and looked in amaze- 
ment at the Klosking, and wondered 
how she did it. 

Miss Maitland, at her last sovereign, 
began to lean on the victorious Klos- 
king, and bet as she did : her pile in- 
creased. The dove caught sight of 
her game, and backed her luck. The 
creole backed her heavily. 


Presently there was an extraordi- 
nary run on black. Numbers were 
caught. The Klosking won three 
times, and lost three times ; but the 
bets she won were double bets, and 
those she lost were single. 

Then came a refait, and the bank 
swept off half her stake ; but even here 
she was lucky. She had only forty 
pounds on. 

By-and-by came the event of the 
night. Black had for some time ap- 
peared to rule the roast, and thrust 
red off the table, and the Klosking 
lost two hundred pounds. 

The Klosking put two hundred 
pounds on red: it won. She doubled: 
red won. She doubled : there was a 
dead silence. The creole lady put 
the maximum on red, three hundred 
pounds : red won. Ina Klosking 
looked a little pale; but, driven “by 
some unaccountable impulse, she dou- 
bled. So did the creole. Red won. 
The automata chucked sixteen hun- 
dred pounds to the Klosking, and six 
hundred pounds to the other lady. 
Ina bet forty pounds on black. Red 
won again. She put two hundred 
pounds on black : black won. She 
doubled : black won again. She dou- 
bled : black won. Doubled again : 
black won. 

The creole and others stood with 
her in that last run, and the money 
was chucked. But the settlement was 
followed by a short whisper, and a 
croupier, in a voice as mechanical as 
ever, chanted that the sum set apart 
for that table was exhausted for that 
day. 

The Klosking and her backers had 
broken the bank. 


CHAPTER IX. 

There was a buzzing, and a throng- 
ing round the victorious player. 

Ina rose, and, with a delicate move- 
ment of her milk-white hand, turn- 
ed the mountain of gold and column 


A. WOMAN-HATER. 


71 


of notes toward Ashmead. “ Make 
haste, please,” she whispered; then 
put on her gloves deliberately, while 
Ashmead shoved the gold and the 
notes anyhow into the inner pockets 
of his shooting-jacket, and buttoned it 
well up. 

u A lions,” said she, calmly, and took 
his arm ; but, as she moved away, she 
saw Zoe Vizard passing on the other 
side of the table. Their eyes met : 
she dropped Ash mead’s arm, and made 
her a sweeping courtesy full of polite 
consideration, and a sort of courteous 
respect for the person saluted, coupled 
with a certain dignity, and then she 
looked wistfully at her a moment. I 
believe she would have spoken to her 
if she had been alone ; but Miss Mait- 
land and Fanny Dover had, both of 
them., a trick of putting on noli-me- 
tangere faces among strangers. It 
did not mean much ; it is an unfortu- 
nate English habit. But it repels for- 
eigners : they neither do it nor under- 
stand it. 

Those two faces, not downright for- 
bidding, but uninviting, turned the 
scale ; and the Klosking, who was not 
a forward woman, did not yield to her 
inclination and speak to Zoe. She 
took Ashmead’s arm again and moved 
away. 

Then Zoe turned back and beckoned 
Vizard. He joined her. “There she 
is,” said Zoe ; “ shall I speak to her ?” 

Would you believe it ? He thought 
a moment, and then said, gloomily, 
“Well, no. Half cured now. Seen 
the lover in time.” So that opportu- 
nity was frittered away. 

Before the English party left the 
Kursaal, Zoe asked, timidly, if they 
ought not to make some inquiry about 
Mr. Severne. He had been taken ill 
again. 

“Ay, taken ill, and gone to be 
cured at another table,” said Vizard, 
ironically. “I’ll make the tour, and 
collar him.” 

He went off in a hurry ; Miss Mait- 
land faced a glass, and proceeded to 
arrange her curl. 


Fanny, though she had offered no 
opposition to Vizard’s going, now 
seized Zoe’s arm with unusual energy, 
and almost dragged her aside. “The 
idea of sending Harrington on that 
fool’s errand!” said she, peevishly. 
“ Why, Zoe ! where are your eyes ?” 

Zoe showed her by opening them 
wide. “ What do you mean ?” 

“ What — do — I — mean ? No mat- 
ter. Mr. Severne is not in this build- 
ing, and you know it.” 

“ How can I know ? All is so 
mysterious,” faltered Zoe. “ How do 
you know?” 

“Because — there — least said is 
soonest mended.” 

“Fanny, you are older than me, 
and ever so much cleverer. Tell me, 
or you are not my friend.” 

“Wait till you get home, then. 
Here he is.” 

Vizard told them he had been 
through all the rooms; the only chance 
now was the dining-room. “No,” 
said Fanny, “we wish to get home; 
we are rather tired.” 

They went to the rail, and at first 
Vizard was rather talkative, making 
his comments on the players ; but the 
ladies were taciturn, and brought him 
to a stand. “Ah,” thought he, 
“ nothing interests them now ; Adonis 
is not here.” So he retired within 
himself. 

When they reached the Russie, he 
ordered a petit souper in an hour, 
and invited the ladies. Meantime 
they retired — Miss Maitland to her 
room, and Fanny, with Zoe, to hers. 
By this time Miss Dover had lost her 
alacrity, and would, I verily believe, 
have shunned a tete-a-tete if she could ; 
but there was a slight paleness in Zoe's 
cheek, and a compression of the lips, 
which told her plainly that young lady 
meant to have it out with her. They 
both knew so well what was coming, 
that Zoe merely waved her to a chair 
and leaned herself against the bed, and 
said, “Now, Fanny.” So Fannv was 
brought to bay. 


72 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


* 


“ Dear me,” said she, piteously, “ I 
don’t know what to do, between you 
and Aunt Maitland. If I say all I 
think, I suppose you will hate ine; 
and if I don’t, I shall be told I’m 
wicked, and don’t warn an orphan 
girl. She flew at me like a bull-dog 
before your brother: she said I was 
twenty-five, and I only own to twen- 
ty-three. And, after all, what could I 
say ? for I do feel I ought to give you 
the benefit of my experience, and 
make myself as disagreeable as she 
does. And I have given you a hint, 
and a pretty broad one, but you want 
such plain speaking.” 

“I do,” said Zoe. “So please 
speak plainly, if you can.” 

“Ah, you say that.” 

“And I mean it. Never mind con- 
sequences; tell me the truth.” 

“Like a man, eh? and get hated.” 

“Men are well worth imitating, in 
some things. Tell me the truth, 
pleasant or not, and I shall always 
respect you.” 

‘ ‘ Bother respect. I am like the rest 
of us ; I want to be loved a little bit. 
But there — I’m in for it. I have said 
too much, or too little. I know that. 
Well, Zoe, the long and the short is — 
you have a rival.” 

Zoe turned rather pale, but was not 
so much shaken as Fanny expected. 

She received the blow in silence. 
But after a while she said, with some 
firmness, “Mademoiselle Klosking?” 

“ Oh, you are not quite blind, then. ” 

“And pray which does he prefer?” 
asked Zoe, a little proudly. 

“It is plain he likes you the best. 
But why does he fear her so? This 
is where you seem all in the dark. 
He flew out of the opera, lest she should 
see him.” 

“Oh! Absurd!” 

“He cut you and Vizard, rather 
than call upon her with you.” 

“And so he did.” 

“He flew from the gambling-table 
the moment she entered the room.” 

“ Behind him. She came in behind 
him.” 


“ There was a large mirror in front 
of him.” 

“Oh, Fanny! oh!” and Zoe clasp- 
ed her hands piteously. But she re- 
covered herself, and said, “After all, 
appearances are deceitful.” 

“Not so deceitful as men,” said 
Fanny, sharply. 

But Zoe clung to her straw. 
“Might not two things happen to- 
gether ? He is subject to bleeding at 
the nose. It is strange it should oc- 
cur twice so, but it is possible.” 

“Zoe,” said Fanny, gravely, “ he is 
not subject to bleeding at the nose.” 

“Oil, then — but how can you know 
that? What right have you to say 
that?” 

“I’ll show you,” said Fanny, and 
left the room. 

She soon came back, holding some- 
thing behind her back. Even at the 
last moment she was half unwilling. 
However, she looked down, and said, 
in a very peculiar tone, “ Here is the 
handkerchief he put before his face 
at the Opera; there!” and she threw 
it into Zoe’s lap. 

Zoe’s nature revolted against evi- 
dence so obtained. She did not even 
take up the handkerchief. “ What !” 
she cried; “you took it out of his 
pocket ?” 

“No.” 

“Then you have been in his room 
and got it.” 

“ Nothing of the kind! I sent 
Rosa.” 

“ My maid !” 

‘ ‘ Mine, for that job. I gave her half 
a crown to borrow it for a pattern.” 

Zoe seized the handkerchief, and 
ran her eye over it in a moment. 
There was no trace of blood on it, and 
there were his initals, “E. S.” in the 
corner. Her woman’s eye fastened 
instantly on these. “ Silk ?” said she, 
and held it up to the light. “No. 
Hair ! — golden hair. It is hers /” 
And she flung the handkerchief from 
her as if it were a viper, and even when 
on the ground eyed it with dilating 
orbs and a hostile horror. 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


73 


“ La !” said Fanny ; “ fancy that ! 
You are not blind now. You have 
seen more than I. I made sure it was 
yellow silk. ” 

But this frivolous speech never even 
entered Zoe’s ear. She was too deep- 
ly shocked. She went, feebly, and 
sat down in a chair, and covered her 
face with her hands. 

Fanny eyed her with pity. “ There ! ” 
said_ she, almost crying, “ I never tell 
the truth but I bitterly repent it.” 

Zoe took no notice of this droll ap- 
othegm. Her hands began to work. 
“ What shall I do !” she said. “ What 
shall I do !” 

“Oh, don’t go on like that, Zoe!” 
cried Fanny. “After all, it is you 
he prefers. He ran away from her.” 

“ Ah, yes. But why ? — why ? 
What has he done?” 

‘ ‘ Jilted her, I suppose. Aunt Mait- 
land thinks he is after money; and, 
you know, you have got money.” 

“Have I nothing else?” said the 
proud beauty, and lifted her bowed 
head for a moment. 

“You have every thing. But you 
should look things in the face. Is 
that singer an unattractive woman ?” 

“Oh no. But she is not poor. 
Her kind of talent is paid enormous- 
ly.” 

“That is true,” said Fanny. “ But 
perhaps she wastes it. She is a gam- 
bler, like himself.” 

“ Let him go to her,” said Zoe, 
wildly ; “ I will share no man’s heart.” 

“He will never go to her, unless — 
well, unless we tell him that she has 
broken the bank with his money.” 

“ If you think so badly of him, tell 
him, then, and let him go. Oh, I am 
wretched — I am wretched ! ” She lift- 
ed her hands in despair, and began to 
cry and sob bitterly. 

Fanny was melted at her distress, 
and knelt to her, and cried with her. 

Not being a gill of steady princi- 
ple, she went round with the wind. 
“Dear Zoe,” said she, “it is deeper 
than I thought. La ! if you love him, 
why torment yourself?” 


“No,” said Zoe; “it is deceit and 
mystery that torment me. Oh, what 
shall I do ! what shall I do !” 

Fanny interpreted this vague excla- 
mation of sorrow as asking advice, 
and said, “I dare not advise you; I 
can only tell you what I should do in 
your place. I should make up my 
mind at once whether I loved the 
man, or only liked him. If I only 
liked him, I would turn him up at 
once.” 

“ Turn him up ! What is that ?” 

“Turn him off, then. If I loved 
him, I would not let any other woman 
have the least little bit of a chance to 
get him. For instance, I would not 
let him know this old sweetheart of 
his has won three thousand pounds at 
least, for I noted her winnings. Dia- 
mond cut diamond, my dear. He is 
concealing from you something or 
other about him and this Klosking; 
hide you this one little thing about the 
Klosking from him, till you get my 
gentleman safe to England.” 

‘ 4 And this is love ! I call it war- 
fare.” 

“And love is warfare, three times 
out of four. Anyway, it is for you 
to decide, Zoe. I do wish you had 
never seen the man. He is not what 
he seems. He is a poor adventurer, 
and a bundle of deceit.” 

“You are very hard on him. You 
don’t know all.” 

“No, nor a quarter; and you know 
less. There, dear, dry your eyes and 
fight against it. After all, you know 
you are mistress of the situation. I’ll 
settle it for you, which way you like.” 

“You will? Oh, Fanny, you are 
very good ! ” 

“Say indulgent, please. I’m not 
good, and never will be, if I can pos- 
sibly help. I despise good people ; 
they are as weak as water. But I do 
like you, Zoe Vizard, better than any 
other woman in the world. That is 
not saying very much ; my taste is for 
men. I think them gods and -devils 
compared with us ; and I do admire 
gods and devils. No matter, dear- 


74 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


Kiss me, and say, ‘Fanny, act for 
me,’ and I'll do it.” 

Zoe kissed her, and then, by a truly 
virginal impulse, hid her burning face 
in her hands, and said nothing at all. 

Fanny gave her plenty of time, anil 
then said, kindly, “Well, dear?” 

Then Zoe murmured, scarce audi- 
bly, “Act — as if— I loved him.” 

And still she kept her face covered 
with her hands. 

Fanny was any thing but surprised at 
this conclusion of the struggle. She 
said, with a certain alacrity, “Very 
well, I will : so now bathe your eyes 
and come in to supper.” 

“No, no; please go and make an 
excuse for me.” 

“I shall do nothing of the kind. 
I won’t be told by-and-by I have done 
wrong. I will do your business, but 
it shall be in your heal ing. Then you 
can interfere, if you choose. Only 
you had better not put your word in 
till you see what I am driving at.” 

With a little more encouragement, 
Zoe was prevailed on to sponge her 
tearful eyes and compose herself, and 
join Harrington at supper. 

Miss Maitland soon retired, plead- 
ing fatigue and packing ; and she had 
not been gone long, when Fanny gave 
her friend a glance and began upon 
Harrington. 

“You are very fond of Mr. Sev- 
erne, are you not ?” said she. 

“I am,” said Vizard, stoutly, pre- 
paring for battle. “You are not, per- 
haps.” 

Fanny laughed at this prompt pug- 
nacity. “Oh yes, I am,” said she; 
“devoted. But he has a weakness, 
you must own. He is rather fond of 
gambling.” 

“ He is, I am sorry to say. It is 
his one fault. Most of us have two 
or three.” 

“Don’t you think it would be a 
pit\- if he were to refuse to go with us 
to-morrow — were to prefer to stay 
here and gamble ?” 

“ No fear of that : he has given me 
his word of honor.” 


“Still, I think it would be hardly 
safe to tempt him. If you go and 
tell him that friend of his won such 
a lot of money, he will want to stop ; 
and if he does not stop, he will go 
away miserable. You know they be- 
gan betting with his money, though 
they went on with their own.” 

“ Oh, did they ? What was his own 
money ?” 

“ How much was it, Zoe?” 

“ Fifty pounds.” 

“Well,” said Vizard, “you must 
admit it is hard he should lose his 
own money. And yet I own I am 
most anxious to get him away from 
this place. Indeed, I have a project ; 
I want him to rusticate a few months 
at our place, while I set my lawyer to 
look into his affairs and see if his es- 
tate can not be cleared. I’ll be bound 
the farms are underlet. What does 
the Admirable Crichton know about 
such trifles ?” 

Fanny looked at Zoe, whose color 
was rising high at all this. “ Well !” 
said she, “ when you gentlemen fall in 
love with each other , you certainly are 
faithful creatures.” 

“Because we can count on fidelity 
in return,” said Vizard. He thought 
a little, and said, “Well, as to the 
other thing — you leave it to me. Let 
us understand one another. Nothing 
we saw at the gambling-table is to be 
mentioned by us ?” 

“No.” 

“ Crichton is to be taken to En- 
gland for his good.” 

“Yes.” 

“And I am to be grateful to you 
for your co-operation in this.” 

“ You can, if you like.” 

“And yon will secure an agreeable 
companion for the rest of the tour, 
eh ? — my diplomatic cousin and my 
silent sister.” 

“Yes ; but it is too bad of you to 
see through a poor girl, and her little 
game, like that. I own he is a charm- 
ing companion.” 

Fanny’s cunning eyes twinkled, and 
Zoe blushed crimson to see her noble 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


75 


brother manipulated by this artful 
minx, and then flattered for his per- 
spicacity. 

From that moment a revulsion took 
place in her mind, and pride fought 
furiously with love — for a time. 

This was soon made apparent to 
Fanny Dover. When they retired, 
Zoe looked very gloomy ; so Fanny 
asked, rather sharply, “ Well, what is 
the matter now ? Didn’t I do it clev- 
erly ?” 

“ Yes, yes, too cleverly. Oh, Fan- 
ny, I begin to revolt against myself.” 

“ This is nice !” said Fanny. “ Go 
on, dear. It is just what I ought 
to have expected. You were there. 
You had only to interfere. You 
didn’t. And now you are discontent- 
ed.” 

“Not with you. Spare me. You 
are not to blame, and I am very un- 
happy. I am losing my self-respect. 
Oh, if this goes on, I shall hate him !” 

“Yes, dear — for five minutes, and 
then love him double. Come, don’t 
deceive yourself, and don’t torment 
yourself. All your trouble, we shall 
leave it behind us to-morrow, and ev- 
ery hour will take us farther from it.” 

With this practical view of matters, 
she kissed Zoe and hurried to bed. 

But Zoe scarcely closed her eyes all 
night. 

Severne did not reach the hotel till 
past eleven o’clock, and went straight 
to his own room. 


CHAPTER X. 

Ashmead accompanied Mademoi- 
selle Klosking to her apartment. It 
was lighted, and the cloth laid for 
supper under the chandelier, a snow- 
white Hamburg damask. Ashmead 
took the winnings out of his pocket, 
and proudly piled the gold and crum- 
pled notes in one prodigious mass upon 
the linen, that shone like satin, and 
made the gold look doubly inviting. 
Then he drew back and gloated on it. 


The Klosking, too, stood and eyed the 
pile of wealth with amazement and 
a certain reverence. “Let me count 
it,” said Ashmead. He did so, and it 
came to four thousand nine hundred 
and eighty-one pounds, English mon- 
ey. “And to think,” said he, “if you 
had taken my advice you would not 
have a penny of this!” 

“I'll take your advice now,” said 
she. “ I will never gamble again.” 

“ Well, take my advice, and lock 
up the swag before a creature sees it. 
Homburg is full of thieves.” 

She complied, and took away the 
money in a napkin. 

Ashmead called after her to know 
might he order supper. 

“If you will be so kind.” 

Ashmead rejoiced at this unguarded 
permission, and ordered a supper that 
made Karl stare. 

The Klosking returned in about 
half an hour, clad in a crisp peignoir. 

Ashmead confronted her. “ I have 
ordered a bottle of Champagne,” said 
he. Her answer surprised him. 

‘ ‘ You have done well. We must now 
begin to prove the truth of the old 
proverb, ‘ Ce qui vient de la flfite s’en 
va au tambour.’ ” 

At supper Mr. Ashmead was the 
chief drinker, and, by a natural con- 
sequence, the chief speaker : he held 
out brilliant prospects ; he favored the 
Klosking with a discourse on adver- 
tising. No talent availed without 
it ; large posters, pictures, window- 
cards, etc. ; but as her talent was su* 
perlative, he must now endeavor to 
keep up with it by invention in his 
line — the puff circumstantial, the puff 
poetic, the puff anecdotal, the puff con- 
troversial, all tending to blow the fame 
of the Klosking in every eye, and ring 
it in every ear. “You take my ad- 
vice,” said he, “and devote this mon- 
ey, every penny of it, to Publicity. 
Don’t you touch a single shiner for 
any thing that does not return a hun- 
dred per cent. Publicity does, when 
the article is prime.” 

“You forget,” said she, “ this mon- 


76 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


ey does not all belong to me. Anoth- 
er can claim half ; the gentleman with 
whom we ave in partnership.” 

Ashmead looked literally blue. 
“ Nonsense ! ” said he, roughly. ‘ ‘ He 
can only claim his fifty pounds.” 

“Nay, my friend. I took two equal 
sums : one was his, one mine.” 

“That has nothing to do with it. 
He told me to bet for him. I didn’t ; 
and I shall take him back his fifty 
pounds and say so. I know where to 
find him.” 

“Where?” 

“That is my business. Don’t you 
go mad now, and break my heart.” 

“Well, my friend, we will talk of 
it to - morrow morning. It certainly 
is not very clear ; and perhaps, after I 
have prayed and slept, I may see more 
plainly what is right.” 

Ashmead observed she was pale, 
and asked her, with concern, if she 
was ill. 

“No, not ill,” said she, “ but worn 
out. My friend, I knew not at the 
time how great was my excitement ; 
but now I am conscious that this 
afternoon I have lived a week. My 
very knees give way under me.” 

Upon this admission, Ashmead hur- 
ried her to bed. 

She slept soundly for some hours ; 
but, having once awakened, she fell 
into a half - sleepless state, and was 
full of dreams and fancies. These 
preyed on her so, that she rose and 
dispatched a servant to Ashmead, 
with a line in pencil begging him to 
take an early breakfast with her, at 
nine o’clock. 

As soon as ever he came, she began 
upon the topic of last night. She had 
thought it over, and said, frankly, she 
was not without hopes the gentleman, 
if he was really a gentleman, might be 
contented with something less than 
half. But she really did not see how 
she could refuse him some share of 
her winnings, should he demand it. 
“ Think of it,” said she. “ The poor 
man loses — four hundred pounds, I 
think you said. Then he says, ‘Bet 


you for me,’ and goes away, trusting 
to your honor. His luck changes in 
my hands. Is he to lose all when he 
loses, and win nothing when he wins, 
merely because I am so fortunate as 
to win much ? However, we shall 
hear what he says. You gave him 
your address.” 

“I said I was at The Golden 
Star,” growled Ashmead, in a tone 
that plainly showed he was vexed 
with himself for being so communi- 
cative. 

“ Then he will pay us a visit as soon 
as he hears : so I need give myself no 
further trouble.” 

“Why should you? Wait till he 
comes,” said crafty Ashmead. 

Ina Klosking colored. She felt her 
friend was tempting her, and felt she 
was not quite beyond the power of 
temptation. 

“ What was be like?” said she, to 
turn the conversation. 

“The handsomest young fellow I 
ever saw.” 

“Young, of course?” 

“Yes, quite a boy. At least, he 
looked a boy. To be sure, his talk 
was not like a boy’s ; very precocious, 
I should say.” 

“What a pity, to begin gambling 
so young !” 

“ Oh, he is all right. If he loses 
every farthing of his own, he will mar- 
ry money. Any woman would have 
him. You never saw such a curled 
darling.” 

“ Dark or fair?” 

‘ ‘ Fair. Pink-and- white, like a girl ; 
a hand like a lady.” 

“Indeed. Fine eyes?” 

“Splendid!” 

“What color?” 

“ I don’t know. Lord bless you, 
a man does not examine another man’s 
eyes, like you ladies. However, now 
I think of it, there was one curious 
thing I should know him by any- 
where.” 

“And what was that ?” 

“Well, you see, his hair was brown ; 
but just above the forehead he had got 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


77 


one lock that was like your own — gold 
itself.” 

While he said this, the Klosking’s 
face underwent the most rapid and 
striking changes, and at last she sat 
looking at him wildly. 

It was some time before he noticed 
her, and then he was quite alarmed 
at her strange expression. “What is 
the matter ?” said he. “Are you ill ?” 

“ No, no, no. Only a little — aston- 
ished. Such a thing as that is very 
rare.” 

“That it is. I never saw a case 
before.” 

“Not one, in all your life?” asked 
she, eagerly. 

“ Well, no ; not that I remember.” 

“Excuse me a minute,” said Ina 
Klosking, and went hurriedly from the 
room. 

Ashmead thought her manner very 
strange, but concluded she was a little 
unhinged by yesterday’s excitement. 
Moreover, there faced him an omelet 
of enormous size, and savory. He 
thought this worthy to divide a man’s 
attention even with the great creat- 
ure’s tantrums. He devoted himself 
to it, and it occupied him so agreeably 
that he did not observe the conduct of 
Mademoiselle Klosking on her return. 
She placed three photographs softly on 
the table, not very far from him, and 
then resumed her seat ; but her eye 
never left him : and she gave mono- 
syllabic and almost impatient replies 
to every thing he mumbled with his 
mouth full of omelet. 

When he had done his omelet, he 
noticed the photographs. They were 
all colored. He took one up. It was 
an elderly woman, sweet, venerable, 
and fair-haired. He looked at Ina, 
and at the photograph, and said, 
“This is your mother.” 

“It is.” 

“It is angelic — as might be ex- 
pected.” 

He took up another. 

“This is your brother, I suppose. 
Stop. Halloo! — what is this? Are 
my eyes making a fool of me?” 


He held out the photograph at 
arms-length, and stared from it to her. 
“Why, madam,” said he, in an awe- 
struck voice, “this is the gentleman — 
the player — I’d swear to him.” 

Ina started from her seat while he 
spoke. “Ah !” she cried, “ I thought 
so — my Edward!” and sat down, 
trembling violently. 

Ashmead ran to her, and sprinkled 
water in her face, for she seemed ready 
to faint: but she murmured, “No, 
no!” and soon the color rushed into 
her face, and she clasped her hands 
together, and cried, “I have found 
him!” and soon the storm of varying 
emotions ended in tears that gave her 
relief. 

It was a long time before she spoke ; 
but when she did, her spirit and her 
natural strength of character took the 
upper hand. “Where is he?” said 
she, firmly. 

“ He told me he was at the ‘Rus- 
sie.’ ” 

“ We will go there at once. When 
is the next train ?” 

Ashmead looked at his watch. 
“ In ten minutes. We can hardly do 
it.” 

“ Yes, we can. Order a carriage 
this instant. I will be ready in one 
minute.” 

They caught the train, and started. 

As they glided along, Ashmead beg- 
ged her not to act too hurriedly, and 
expose herself to insult. 

“Who will dare insult me?” 

“Nobody, I hope. Still, I can not 
bear you to go into a strange hotel 
hunting this man. It is monstrous ; 
but I am afraid you will not be wel- 
come. Something has just occurred 
to me ; the reason he ran off so sud- 
denly was, he saw you coming. There 
was a mirror opposite. Ah, we need 
not have feared he would come back 
for his winnings. Idiot — villain !” 

“You stab me to the heart,” said 
Ina. “ He ran away at sight of me? 
Ah, Jesu, pity me ! What have I 
done to him ?” 

Honest Ashmead had much ado not 


78 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


to blubber at this patient cry of an- 
guish, though the woman herself shed 
no tear just then. But his judgment 
was undimmed by passion, and he gave 
her the benefit. “Take my advice,” 
said he, “ and work it this way. Come 
in a close carriage to the side street 
that is nearest the Russie. I'll go in 
to the hotel and ask for him by his 
name — what is his name?” 

“Mr. Edward Se verne.” 

“And say that I was afraid to stake 
his money, but a friend of mine, that 
is a bold player, undertook it, and had 
a great run of luck. ‘ There is mon- 
ey owing you,’ says I, ‘and my friend 
has brought it.’ Then he is sure to 
come. You will have your veil down, 
I’ll open the carriage - door, and tell 
him to jump in, and, when you have 
got him, you must make him hear rea- 
son. I’ll give you a good chance — 
I’ll shut the carriage-door.” 

Ina smiled at his ingenuity — her 
first smile that day. “You are in- 
deed a friend,” said she. “ He fears 
reproaches, but, when he finds he is 
welcome, he will stay with me ; and 
he shall have money to play with, and 
amuse himself how he likes. I kept 
too tight a rein on him, poor fellow ! 
My good mother taught me prudence.” 

“Yes, but,” said Ashmead, “you 
must promise me one thing : not to 
let him know how much money you 
have won, and not to go, like a goose, 
and give him a lot at once. It never 
pays to part with power in this wicked 
world. You give him twenty pounds 
a day to play with whenever he is 
cleaned out. Then the money will 
last your time, and he will never leave 
you.” 

“Oh, how cold-hearted and wise 
you are ! ” said she. “But such a hu- 
miliating position for him /” 

“Don’t you be silly. You won’t 
keep him any other way.” 

“ I will be as wise as I can,” sighed 
Ina. “I have had a bitter lesson. 
Only bring him to me, and then, who 
knows? I am a change: my love 
may revive his, and none of these pit- 


iable precautions may be needed. 
They would lower us both.” 

Ashmead groaned aloud. ‘ ‘ I see, ” 
said he. “He’ll soon clean you out. 
Ah, well ! he can’t rob' you of your 
voice, and he can’t rob you of your 
Ashmead.” 

They soon reached Frankfort. 
Ashmead put her into a carriage as 
agreed, and went to the Russie. 

Ina sat, with her veil down, in the 
carriage, and waited Ashmead’s re- 
turn with Severne. He was a long 
time coming. She began to doubt, 
and then to fear, and wonder why he 
was so long. 

At last he came in sight: 

He was alone. 

As he drew nearer she saw his face 
was thoroughly downcast. 

“My dear friend,” he faltered, 
“you are out of luck to-day.” 

“ He will not come with you?” 

“Oh, he would come fast enough, 
if he was there; but he is gone.” 

“Gone! To Homburg?” 

“No. Unfortunately, he is gone 
to England. Went off, by the fast 
train, an hour ago.” 

Ina fell back in silence, just as if 
she had been struck in the face. 

“He is traveling with an English 
family, and they have gone straight 
home. Here are their names. I 
looked in the visitors’ book, and talk- 
ed to the servant, and all. “ Mr. Viz- 
ard, Miss Vizard — ” 

“Vizard ?” 

“Yes — Miss Maitland, Miss Dover. 
See, I wrote them all down.” 

“Oh, I am unfortunate! Why 
was I ever born ?” 

“Don't say that, don’t say that. 
It is annoying : but we shall be able 
to trace him now ; and, besides, I see 
other ways of getting hold of him.” 

Ina broke in upon his talk. “ Take 
me to the nearest church,” she cried. 
“Man’s words are vain. Ah, Jesu, 
let me cry to thee !” 

He took her to the nearest church. 
She went in, and prayed for full two 
hours. She came out, pale and list' 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


79 


less, and Ashmead got her home how 
he could. Her very body seemed all 
crushed and limp. Ashmead left her, 
sad at heart himself. 

So long as she was in sight Ash- 
mead could think only of her misery: 
but the moment she was out of sight, 
he remembered the theatre. She was 
announced for Rosina that very night. 
He saw trouble of all sorts before 
him. He ran to the theatre, in great 
alarm, and told the manager she had 
been taken very ill. He must change 
the bill. 

‘ * Impossible !” was the reply. “If 
she can’t sing, I close.” 

Ashmead went back to The Star. 

In a was in her bedroom. 

He sent in a line, “Can you sing 
to-night? If not, he says he must 
close.” 

The reply came back in rather a 
trembling hand. “ I suffer too much 
by falsehood to break faith myself. I 
shall pray till night : and then I shall 
sing. If I die on the stage, all the 
better for me.” 

Was not this a great soul ? 


CHAPTER XI. 

That same morning our English 
party snatched a hasty breakfast in 
traveling attire. Se verne was not 
there ; but sent word to Vizard he 
should be there in time. 

This filled the cup. Zoe’s wound- 
ed pride had been rising higher and 
higher all the night, and she came 
down rather pale, from broken rest, 
and sternly resolved. She had a few 
serious words with Fanny, and sketch- 
ed her out a little map of conduct, 
which showed that she had thought 
the matter well over. 

But her plan bid fair to be de- 
ranged : Severne was not at the sta- 
tion : then came a change. Zoe was 
restless, and cast anxious glances. 

But at the second bell he darted 
into the carriage, as if he had just dis- 


patched some wonderful business to 
get there in time. While the train 
was starting, he busied himself in ar- 
ranging his things ; but, once started, 
he put on his sunny look, and pre- 
pared to be, as usual, the life and soul 
of the party. 

But, for once, he met a frost. Zoe 
was wrapped in impenetrable hauteur , 
and Fanny in polite indifference. 
Never was loss of favor more ably 
marked without the least ill-breeding, 
and no good handle given to seek an 
explanation. 

No doubt a straightforward man, 
with justice on his side, would have 
asked them plumply whether he had 
been so unfortunate as to offend, and 
how ; and this was what Zoe secretly 
wished, however she might seem to 
repel it. But Severne was too crafty 
for that. He had learned the art of 
waiting. 

After a few efforts at conversation 
and smooth rebuffs, he put on a sur- 
prised, mortified, and sorrowful air, 
and awaited the attack, which he felt 
would come soon or late. 

This skillful inertia baffled the fair, 
in a man ; in a woman, they might 
have expected it ; and, after a few 
hours, Zoe’s patience began to wear 
out. 

The train stopped for twenty min- 
utes, and, even while they were snatch- 
ing a little refreshment, the dark locks 
and the blonde came very close to- 
gether ; and Zoe, exasperated bv her 
own wounded pride and the sullen 
torpor of her lover, gave Fanny fresh 
instructions, which nobody was better 
qualified to carry out than that young 
lady, as nobody was better able to 
baffle female strategy than the gentle- 
man. 

This time, however, the ladies had 
certain advantages, to balance his 
subtlety and his habit of stating any 
thing, "true or false, that suited his 
immediate purpose. 

They opened very cat-like. Fanny 
affected to be outgrowing her ill-hu- 
mor, and volunteered a civil word 


80 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


or two to Severne. Thereupon Zoe 
turned sharply away from Fanny, as 
if she disapproved her conduct, and 
took a book. This was pretty sly, 
and done, I suppose, to remove all 
idea of concert between the fair assail- 
ants ; whereas it was a secret signal 
for the concert to come into opera- 
tion, it being Fanny’s part to play 
upon Severne, and Zoe’s to watch, 
from her corner, every lineament of 
his face under fire. 

“By- the- way, Mr. Severne,” said 
Fanny, apropos of a church on a hill 
they were admiring, “did you get your 
winnings ?” 

“My winnings! You are sarcas- 
tical.” 

“Am I? Really I did not intend 
to be.” 

“ No, no ; forgive me ; but that did 
seem a little cruel. Miss Dover, I was 
a heavy loser.” 

“Not while we were there. The 
lady and gentleman who played with 
your money won, oh, such a deal!” 

“ The devil they did !” 

“Yes. Did you not stay behind, 
last night, to get it? We never saw 
you at the Russie.” 

‘ ‘ I was very ill. ” 

“Bleeding at the nose?” 

“No. That always relieves me 
when it comes. I am subject to faint- 
ing fits : once I lay insensible so long 
they were going to bury me. Now, 
do pray tell me what makes you fancy 
any body won a lot with my money.” 

“ Well, 1 will. You know you left 
fifty pounds for a friend to bet with.” 

Severne stared; but was too eager 
for information to question her how 
she knew this. “ Yes, I did,” said he. 

“And you really don’t know what 
followed?” 

‘ ‘ Good heavens ! how can I ?” 

“Well, then, as you ran out — to 
faint, Mademoiselle Klosking came in, 
just as she did at the opera, you know, 
the time before, when you ran out — 
to bleed. She slipped into your chair, 
the very moment you left it ; and your 
friend with the flaming neck-tie told 


her you had set him to bet with yout 
money. By -the -bye, Mr. Severne, 
how on earth do you and Mademoiselle 
Klosking, who have both so much 
taste in dress, come to have a mutual 
friend, vulgarity in person, with a vel- 
veteen coat and an impossible neck- 
tie?” 

“ What are you talking about, Miss 
Dover ? I do just know Mademoiselle 
Klosking ; I met her in society in 
Vienna, two years ago : but that cad 
I commissioned to bet for me, I never 
saw before in my life. You are keep- 
ing me on tenter-hooks. My money — 
my money — my money ! If you have 
a heart in your bosom, tell me what 
became of my money.” 

He was violent, for the first time 
since they had known him, and his 
eyes flashed fire. 

“Well,” said Fanny, beginning to 
be puzzled and rather frightened, 
“this man, who you say was a new 
acquaintance — ” 

“Whom I say ? Do you mean to 
tell me I am a liar?” He fumbled 
eagerly in his breast-pocket, and pro- 
duced a card. “There,” said he, 

‘ ‘ this is the card he gave me, ‘ Mr. 
Joseph Ashmead.’ Now, may this 
train dash over the next viaduct, and 
take you and Miss Vizard to heaven, 
and me to hell, if I ever saw Mr. 
Joseph Ashmead ’s face before. The 
money! — the money!” 

He uttered this furiously, and, it is 
a curious fact, but Zoe turned red, and 
Fanny pale. It was really in quite a 
cowed voice Miss Dover went on to 
say, “La! don’t fly out like that. 
Well, then, the man refused to bet 
with your money ; so then Mademoi- 
selle Klosking said she would ; and 
she played — oh, how she did play! 
She doubled, and doubled, and dou- 
bled, hundreds upon hundreds,. She 
made a mountain of gold and a pyra- 
mid of bank-notes; and she never 
stopped till she broke the bank — ■ 
there !” 

“With my money?” gasped Sev* 
erne. 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


81 


“Yes; with your money. Your 
friend with the loud tie pocketed it : I 
beg your pardon, not your friend — 
only hers. Harrington says he is her 
cher ami." 

“The money is mine !” he shrieked. 
“I don’t care who played with it, it 
is mine. And the fellow had the im- 
pudence to send me back my fifty 
pounds to the Russie.” 

“What! you gave him your ad- 
dress ?” this with an involuntary glance 
of surprise at Zoe. 

“ Of course. Do you think I leave 
a man fifty pounds to play with, and 
don’t give him my address? He has 
won thousands with my money, and 
sent me back my fifty, for a blind, the 
thief!” 

“Well, really it is too bad,” said 
Fanny. “ But, there — I’m afraid you 
must make the best of it. Of course, 
their sending back your fifty pounds 
shows they mean to keep their win- 
nings.” 

“You talk like a woman,” said he ; 
then, grinding his teeth, and stretch- 
ing out a long muscular arm, he said, 
“I’ll take the blackguard by the 
throat, and tear it out of him, though 
I tear his life out along with it.” 

All this time Zoe had been looking 
at him with concern, and even with 
admiration. He seemed more beauti- 
ful than ever, to her, under the influ- 
ence of passion, and more of a man. 

“Mr. Severne,” said she, “be calm. 
Fanny has misled you, without intend- 
ing it. She did not hear all that pass- 
ed between those two ; I did. The 
velveteen and neck-tie man refused to 
bet with your money. It was Made- 
moiselle "Klosking who bet, and with 
her own money. She took twenty- 
five pounds of her own, and twen- 
ty-five pounds of yours, and won two 
or three hundred in a few moments. 
Surely, as a gentleman, you can not 
ask a lady to do more than repay you 
your twenty-five pounds.” 

Severne was a little cowed by Zoe’s 
interference. He stood his ground; 
but sullenly, instead of violently. 

4 * 


“Miss Vizard, if I were weak 
enough to trust a lady with my mon- 
ey at a gambling-table, I should ex- 
pect foul play ; for I never knew a 
lady yet who would not cheat at cards, 
if she could. I trusted my money to 
a tradesman to bet with. If he takes 
a female partner, that is no business 
of mine ; he is responsible all the 
same, and I’ll have my money.” 

He jumped up at the word, and 
looked out at the window ; he even 
fumbled with the door, and tried to 
open it. 

“You had better jump out,” said 
Fanny. 

“And then they would keep my 
money for good. No,” said he, “I’ll 
wait for the nearest station.” He 
sunk back into his seat, looking unut- 
terable things. 

Fanny looked rather rueful at first; 
then she said, spitefully, “You must 
be very sure of your influence with 
your old sweetheart. You forget she 
has got another now — a tradesman, 
too. He will stick to the money, and 
make her stick to it. Their sending 
the fifty pounds shows that.” 

Zoe’s eyes were on him with micro- 
scopic power, and, with all his self- 
command, she saw him wince and 
change color, and give other signs that 
this shaft had told in many ways. 

He shut his countenance the next 
moment; but it had opened, and Zoe 
was on fire with jealousy and suspi- 
cion. 

Fluctuating Fanny regretted the 
turn things had taken. She did not 
want to lose a pleasant male compan- 
ion, and she felt sure Zoe would be 
unhappy, and cross to her, if he went. 
“Surely, Mr. Severne, ’’she said, “you 
will not desert us and go back for so 
small a chance. Whv, we are a hun- 
dred and fifty miles from Homburg, 
and all the nearer to dear old En- 
gland. There, there — we must be 
kinder to you, and make you forget 
this misfortune.” 

Thus spoke the trimmer. The re- 
ply took her by surprise. 


82 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


“And whose fault is it that I am 
obliged to get out a hundred and fifty 
miles from Homburg? You knew all 
this. You could have got me a delay 
of a few hours to go and get my due. 
You know I am a poor man. With 
all your cleverness, you don’t know 
what made me poor, or you w r ould 
feel some remorse, perhaps ; but you 
know I am poor when most I could 
wish I were rich. You have heard 
that old woman there fling my pover- 
ty in my teeth ; yet you could keep 
this from me — just to assist a cheat 
and play upon the feelings of a friend. 
Now, what good has that done you, 
to inflict misery on me in sport, on a 
man who never gave you a moment’s 
pain if he could help it ?” 

Fanny looked ruefully this way and 
that, her face began to work, and she 
laid down her arms, if a lady can be 
said to do that who lays down a strong 
weapon and takes up a stronger ; in 
other words, she burst out crying, and 
said no more. You see, she was poor 
herself. 

Severne took no notice of her; he 
was accustomed to make women cry. 
He thrust his head out of the window 
in hopes of seeing a station near, and 
his whole being was restless as if he 
would like to jump out. 

While he was in this condition of 
mind and body, the hand he had once 
kissed so tenderly, and shocked Miss 
Maitland, passed an envelope over his 
shoulder, with two lines written on it 
in pencil : 

“If you GO BACK TO HoMBURG, 
oblige me by remaining there.” 

This demands an explanation ; but 
it shall be brief. 

Fanny’s shrewd hint, that the mon- 
ey could only be obtained from Made- 
moiselle Klosking, had pierced Zoe 
through and through. Her mind 
grasped all that had happened, all that 
impended, and, wisely declining to try 
and account for, or reconcile, all the 
jarring details, she settled, with a 
woman’s broad instinct, that, some- 


how or other, his going back to Hom- 
burg meant going back to Mademoi- 
selle Klosking. Whether that lady 
would buy him or not, she did not 
know. But going back to her meant 
going a journey to see a rival, with 
consequences illimitable. 

She had courage ; she had pride ; 
she had jealousy. She resolved to 
lose her lover, or have him all to her- 
self. Share him she would not, nor 
even endure the torture of the doubt. 

She took an envelope out of her 
sachel, and with the pencil attached 
to her chatelaine wrote the fatal 
words, “If you go back to Homburg, 
oblige me by remaining there.” 

At this moment she was not goad- 
ed by pique or any petty feeling. 
Indeed, his reproach to Fanny had 
touched her a little, and it was with 
the tear in her eye she came to the 
resolution, and handed him that line, 
which told him she knew her value, 
and, cost what it might, would part 
with any man forever rather than share 
him with the Klosking or any other 
woman. 

Severne took the line, eyed it, real- 
ized it, fell back from the window', 
and dropped into his seat. This gave 
Zoe a consoling sense of power. She 
had seen her lover raging and rest- 
less, and wanting to jump out, yet now 
beheld him literally felled with a word 
from her hand. 

He leaned his head in his hand in a 
sort of broken-down, collapsed, dog- 
ged way that moved her pity, though 
hardly her respect. 

By-and-by it struck her as a very 
grave thing that he did not reply by 
word, nor even by look. He could 
decide with a glance, and why did he 
hesitate? Was he really balancing 
her against Mademoiselle Klosking 
weighted with a share of his win- 
nings ? 

This doubt was worrmvood to her 
pride and self-respect; but his crush- 
ed attitude allayed in some degree the 
mere irritation his doubt caused. 

The minutes passed and the miles : 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


still that broken figure sat before her, 
with his face hidden by his white 
hand. 

Zoe’s courage began to falter. Mis- 
givings seized her. She had made 
that a matter of love which, after all, 
to a man, might be a mere matter of 
business. He was poor, too, and she 
had thrust her jealousy between him 
and money. He might have his pride 
too, and rebel against her affront. 

As for his thoughts, under that 
crushed exterior, which he put on for 
a blind, they were so deliberate and 
calculating that I shall not mix them 
on this page with that pure and gen- 
erous creature’s. Another time will 
do to reveal his sordid arithmetic. 

As for Zoe, she settled down into 
wishing, with all her heart, she had 
not submitted her lover so imperious- 
ly to a test, the severity of which she 
now saw she had underrated. 

Presently the speed of the train be- 
gan to slacken — all too soon. She 
now dreaded to learn her fate. Was 
she, or was she not, worth a few thou- 
sand pounds ready money? 

A signal-post was past, proving that 
they were about to enter a station. 
Yet another. Now the wheels were 
hardly turning. Now the platform 
was visible. Yet he never moved his 
white, delicate, womanish fingers from 
his forehead, but remained still ab- 
sorbed, and looked undecided. 

At last the motion entirely ceased. 
Then, as she turned her head to glean, 
if possible, the name of the place, he 
stole a furtive glance at her. She 
was pallid, agitated. He resolved upon 
his course. 

As soon as the train stopped, he 
opened the door and jumped out, 
without a word to Zoe, or even a look. 

Zoe turned pale as death. “ I have 
lost him,” said she. 

“No, no,” cried Fanny. “ See, he 
has not taken his cane and umbrel- 
la.” 

“ They will not keep him from fly- 
ing to his money and her,” moaned 
Zoe. “ Hid you not see? He never 


S3 

once looked at me. He could not. I 
am sick at heart.” 

This set Fanny fluttering. “ There, 
let me out to speak to him.” 

“ Sit quiet,” said Zoe, sternly. 

“No; no. If you love him — ” 

“I do love him — passionately. 
And therefore I’ll die rather than 
share him with any one.” 

“ But it is dreadful to be fixed here, 
and not allowed to move hand or 
foot.” 

“It is the lot of women. Let me 
feel the hand of a friend, that is all; 
for I am sick at heart.” 

Fanny gave her her hand, and all 
the sympathy her shallow nature had 
to bestow. 

Zoe sat motionless, gripping her 
friend’s hand almost convulsively, a 
statue of female fortitude. 

This suspense could not last long. 
The officials ordered the travelers to 
the carriages ; doors were opened and 
slammed ; the engine gave a snort, 
and only at that moment did Mr. Ed- 
ward Severn e tear the door open and 
bolt into the carriage. 

Oh, it was pitiable, but lovely, to see 
the blood rush into Zoe’s face, and the 
fire into her eye, and the sweet mouth 
expand in a smile of joy and tri- 
umph ! 

She sat a moment, almost paralyzed 
with pleasure, and then cast her eyes 
down, lest their fire should proclaim 
her feelings too plainly. 

As for Severne, he only glanced at 
her as he came in, and then shunned 
her eye. He presented to her the 
grave, resolved countenance of a man 
who has been forced to a decision, but 
means to abide by it. 

In reality he was delighted at the 
turn things had taken. The money 
was not necessarily lost, since he knew 
where it was; and Zoe had compro- 
mised herself beyond retreating. He 
intended to wear this anxious face q 
long while. But his artificial snow 
had to melt, so real a sun shone full 
on it. The moment he looked full at 
Zoe, she repaid him with such a point- 


84 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


blank beam of glorious tenderness and 
gratitude as made him thrill with pas- 
sion as well as triumph. He felt her 
whole heart was his, and from that 
hour his poverty would never be al- 
lowed to weigh with her. He cleared 
up, and left off acting, because it was 
superfluous ; he had now only to bask 
in sunshine. Zoe, always tender, but 
coy till this moment, made love to him 
like a young goddess. Even Fanny 
yielded to the solid proof of sincerity 
he had given, and was downright af- 
fectionate. 

He was king. And from one gra- 
dation to another, they entered Co- 
logne with Severne seated between the 
two girls, each with a hand in his, and 
a great disposition to pet him and spoil 
him ; more than once, indeed, a deli- 
cate head just grazed each of his 
square shoulders ; but candor com- 
pels me to own that their fatigue and 
the yawing of the carriage at the 
time were more to blame than the 
tired girls ; for at the enormity there 
was a prompt retirement to a distance. 
Miss Maitland had been a long time 
in the land of Nod , and Vizard, from 
the first, had preferred male compan- 
ions and tobacco. 

At Cologne they visited the pride of 
Germany, that mighty cathedral which 
the Middle Ages projected, com- 
menced, and left to decay of old age 
before completion, and our enterpris- 
ing age will finish ; but they departed 
on the same day. 

Before they reached England, the 
love - making between Severne and 
Zoe, though it never passed the bounds 
of good taste, was so apparent to any 
female eye that Miss Maitland re- 
monstrated severely with Fanny. 

But the trimmer was now won to 
the other side. She would not offend 
Aunt Maitland by owning her con- 
version. She said, hypocritically, “ I 
am afraid it is no use objecting at 
present, aunt. The attachment is too 
strong on both sides. And, whether 
he is poor or not, he has sacrificed his 
money to her feelings, and so, now, 


she feels bound in honor. I know 
her ; she won’t listen to a word now, 
aunt : why irritate her ? She would 
quarrel with both of us in a moment.” 

“Poor girl!” said Miss Maitland ; 
and took the hint. She had still an 
arrow in her quiver — Vizard. 

In mid-channel, ten miles south of 
Dover, she caught him in a lucid in- 
terval of non-smoke. She reminded 
him he had promised her to give Mr. 
Severne a hint about Zoe. 

“ So I did,” said he. 

“And have you ?” 

“Well, no ; to tell the truth, I for- 
got.” 

“Then please do it now ; for they 
are going on worse than ever.” 

“I’ll warn the fool,” said he. 

He did warn him, and in the follow- 
ing terms : 

“Look here, old fellow. I hear 
you are getting awfully sweet on my 
sister Zoe.” 

No answer. Severne on his guard. 

“Now, you had better mind your 
eye. She is a very pretty girl, and 
you may find yourself entangled be- 
fore you know where you are.” 

Severne flung his head. “Of 
course, I know it is great presump, 
tion in me.” 

“Presumption? fiddlestick! Such 
a man as you are ought not to be tied 
to any woman, or, if you must be, you 
ought not to go cheap. Mind, Zoe is 
a poor girl , only ten thousand in the 
world. Flirt with whom you like — 
there is no harm in that ; but don’t 
get seriously entangled with any of 
them. Good sisters, and good daugh- 
ters, and good flirts make bad wives.” 

“Oh, then,” said Severne, “it is 
only on my account you object.” 

“Well, principally. And I don’t 
exactly object. I warn. In the first 
place, as soon as ever we get into Bar- 
fordshire, she will most likely jilt you. 
You may be only her Continental 
lover. How can I tell, or you either ? 
And if not, and you were to be weak 
enough to marry her, she would de- 
velop unexpected vices directly — they 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


all do. And you are not rich enough 
to live in a house of your own ; you 
would have to live in mine — a fine 
fate for a rising blade like you.” 

“ What a terrible prospect — to be 
tied to the best friend in England as 
well as the loveliest woman !” 

“Oh, if that is the view you take,” 
said Vizard, beaming with delight, 
“it is no use talking reason to you." 

When they reached London, Vizard 
gave Miss Maitland an outline of this 
conversation ; and, so far from seeing 
the humor of it, which, nevertheless, 
was pretty strong and characteristic 
of the man and his one foible, she 
took the huff, and would not even stay 
to dinner at the hotel. She would go 
into her own county by the next train, 
bag and baggage. 

Mr. Severne was the only one who 
offered to accompany her to the Great 
Western Railway. She declined. He 
insisted ; went with her ; got her tick- 
et, numbered and arranged her pack- 
ages, and saw her safely off, with an 
air of profound respect and admirably 
feigned regret. 

That she was the dupe of his art, 
jnay be doubted : that he lost nothing 
by it, is certain. Men are not ruined 
by civility. As soon as she was seat- 
ed, she said, “ I beg, sir, you will waste 
no more time with me. Mr. Severne, 
yon have behaved to me like a gentle- 
man, and that is very unusual in a 
man of your age nowadays. I can 
not alter my opinion about my niece 
and you : but I am sorry you are a 
poor gentleman — much too poor to 
marry her, and I wish I could make 
you a rich one; but I can not. There 
is my hand.” 

You should have seen the air of ten- 
der veneration with which the young 
Machiavel bowed over her hand, and 
even imprinted a light touch on it 
with his velvet lips. 

Then he retired, disconsolate, and, 
once out of sight, whipped into a gin- 
palace and swallowed a quartern of 
neat brandy, to take the taste out of 
his mouth. “Go it, Ned,” said he, 


85 

to himself ; “you can’t afford to make 
enemies.” 

The old lady went off bitter against 
the whole party except. Mr. Severne; 
and he retired to his friends, disem- 
barrassed of the one foe he had not 
turned into a downright friend, but 
only disarmed. Well does the great 
Voltaire recommend what he well 
calls “ le grand art de plaire.” 

Vizard sent Harris into Barford- 
shire, to prepare for the comfort of 
the party ; and to light fires in all 
the bedrooms, though it was summer ; 
and to see the beds, blankets, and 
sheets aired at the very fires of the very 
rooms they were to be used in. This 
sacred office he never trusted to a 
housekeeper ; he used even to declare, 
as the result of expei ience, that it was 
beyond the intellect of any woman 
really to air mattresses, blankets, and 
sheets — all three. He had also a print- 
ed list he used to show about, of five 
acquaintances, stout fellows all, whom 
“little bits of women” (such was his 
phraseology) had laid low with damp 
beds, having crippled two for life with 
rheumatism and lumbago, and sent 
three to their long home. 

Meantime Severne took the ladies 
to every public attraction by day and 
night, and Vizard thanked him, before 
the fair, for his consideration in tak- 
ing them off his hands; and Severne 
retorted by thanking him for leaving 
them on his. 

It may seem, at first, a vile selec- 
tion ; but I am going to ask the la- 
dies who honor me with their atten- 
tion to follow, not that gay, amorous 
party of three, but this solitary cynic 
on his round. 

Taking a turn round the garden in 
Leicester Square, which was new to 
him, Harrington Vizard’s observant 
eye saw a young lady rise up from a 
seat to go, but turn pale directly, and 
sit down again upon the arm of the 
seat, as if for support. 

“ Halloo!” said Vizard, in his blunt 
way, “you are not well. What can 1 
do for you ?” 


86 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


“lam all right,” said she. “ Please 
go on the latter words in a tone that 
implied she was not a novice, and the 
attentions of gentlemen to strange la- 
dies were suspected. 

“ I beg your pardon,” said Vizard, 
coolly. “ You are not all right. You 
look as if you were going to faint.” 

“What, are my lips blue?” 

“No; but they are pale.” 

“ Well, then it is not a case of faint- 
ing. It may be exhaustion.” 

“You know best. What shall we 
do?” 

“ Why, nothing. Yes ; mind our 
own business.” 

“With all my heart; my business 
just now is to offer you some restora- 
tive — a glass of wine.” 

“Oh yes! I think I see myself 
going into a public-house with you. 
Besides, I don’t believe in stimulants. 
Strength can only enter the human 
body one way. I know what is the 
matter with me.” 

“What is it?” 

“ I am not obliged to tell you." 

“Of course you are not obliged; 
but you might as well.” 

“ Well, then, it is Hunger.” 

“Plunger!” 

“Hunger — famine — starvation. 
Don’t you know English ?” 

“I hope you are not serious, 
madam,” said Vizard, very gravely. 
“ However, if ladies will say such 
things as that, men with stomachs in 
their bosoms must act accordingly. 
Oblige me by taking my arm, as you 
are weak, and we will adjourn to that 
eating-house over the way.” 

“Much obliged,” said the lady, 
satirically, “our acquaintance is not 
quite long enough for that.” 

He looked at her ; a tall, slim, 
young lady, black merino, by no means 
new, clean cuffs and collar, leaning 
against the chair for support, and yet 
sacrificing herself to conventional pro- 
priety, and even withstanding him with 
a pretty little air of defiance, that was 
pitiable, her pallor and the weakness 
of her body considered. 


The poor Woman-hater’s bowels "be- 
gan to yearn. “Look here, you lit-, 
tie spitfire,” said he, “if you don’t 
instantly take my arm, I’ll catch you 
up, and carry you over, with no more 
trouble than you would carry a thread- 
paper. ” 

She looked him up and down very 
keenly, and at last with a slight ex- 
pression of feminine approval, the first 
she had vouchsafed him. Then she 
folded her arms, and cocked her little 
nose at him, “You daren’t. I’ll call 
the police.” 

“If you do, I’ll tell them you are 
my little cousin, mad as a March hare : 
starving, and won’t eat. Come, how 
is it to be ?” He advanced upon her. 

“ You can’t be in earnest, sir,” said 
she, with sudden dignity. 

“Am I not, though? You don’t 
know me. I am used to be obeyed. 
If you don’t go with me like a sensi- 
ble girl, I’ll carry you — to your dinner 
— like a ruffian.” 

“Then I’ll go — like a lady,” said 
she, with sudden humility. 

Pie offered her his arm. She pass- 
ed hers within ; but leaned as lightly 
as possible on it, and her poor pale 
face was a little pink as they went. 

He entered the eating-house, and 
asked for two portions of cold roast 
beef, not to keep her waiting. They 
were brought. 

“Sir,” said she, with a subjugated 
air, “will vou be so good as cut up 
the meat small, and pass it to me a 
bit or two at a time.” 

He was surprised, but obeyed her 
orders. 

“And if you could make me talk 
a little ? Because, at sight of the 
meat so near me, I feel like a tigress 
— poor human nature ! Sir, I have 
not eaten meat for a week, nor food 
of any kind this two days.” 

“Good God!” 

“So I must be prudent. People 
have gorged themselves with furious 
eating under those circumstances ; 
that is why I asked you to supply me 
| slowly. Thank you. You need not 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


87 


look at me like that. Better folk than 
I have died of hunger. Something 
tells me I have reached the lowest 
spoke, when I have been indebted to 
a stranger for a meal.” 

Vizard felt the water come into his 
eyes ; but he resisted that pitiable 
weakness. ‘ ‘ Bother that nonsense ! ” 
said he. “I’ll introduce myself, and 
then you can’t throw stranger in my 
teeth. I am Harrington Vizard, a 
Barfordshire squire.” 

“I thought you were not a Cock- 
ney. ” 

“Lord forbid! Does that infor- 
mation entitle me to any in return ?” 

“I don’t know; but, whether or 
no, my name is Rhoda Gale.” 

“Have another plate, Miss Gale?” 

“Thanks.” 

He ordered another. 

“ I am proud of your confiding your 
name to me, Miss Gale ; but, to tell 
the truth, what I wanted to know is 
how a young lady of your talent and 
education could be so badly off as you 
must be. It is not impertinent curi- 
osity. ” 

The young ladv reflected a moment. 
“Sir,” said she, “ I don’t think it is; 
and I would not much mind telling 
you. Of course I studied you before 
I came here. Even hunger would not 
make me sit in a tavern beside a fool, 
or a snob, or (with a faint blush) a 
libertine. But to tell one’s own story, 
that is so egotistical, for one thing.” 

“Oh, it is never egotistical to 
oblige.” 

“ Now, that is sophistical. Then, 
again, I am afraid I could not tell it 
to you without crying, because you 
seem rather a manly man, and some 
of it might revolt you, and you might 
sympathize right out, and then I 
should break down.” 

“ No matter. Do us both good.” 

“Yes, but before the waiters and 
people ! See how they are staring at 
us already.” 

“We will have another go in at 
the beef, and then adjourn to the gar- 
den for your narrative.” 


“ No : as much garden as you like, 
but no more beef. I have eaten one 
sirloin, I reckon. Will you give me 
one cup of black tea without sugar or 
milk ?” 

Vizard gave the order. 

She seemed to think some explana- 
tion necessary, though he did not. 

“ One cup of tea agrees with my 
brain and nerves,” said she. “It 
steadies them. That is a matter of 
individual experience. I should not 
prescribe it to others any the more 
for that.” 

Vizard sat wondering at the girl. 
He said to himself, “What is she? 
A lusus naturae ?” 

When the tea came, and she had 
sipped a little, she perked up wonder- 
fully. Said she, “Oh, the magic ef- 
fect of food eaten judiciously ! Now 
I am a lioness, and do not fear the 
future. Yes ; I will tell you my story 
— and, if you think you are going to 
hear a love-story, you will be nicely 
caught — ha-ha! No, sir;” said she, 
with rising fervor and heightened col- 
or, “you will hear a story the public 
is deeply interested in and does not 
know it ; ay, a story that will certain- 
ly be referred to with wonder and 
shame, whenever civilization shall be- 
come a reality, and law cease to be a 
tool of injustice and monopoly.” She 
paused a moment ; then said a little 
doggedly, as one used to encounter 
prejudice, “I am a medical student; 
a would-be doctor.” 

“Ah!” 

“ And so well qualified by genuine 
gifts, by study from my infancy, by 
zeal, quick senses, and cultivated judg- 
ment, that, were all the leading Lon- 
don physicians examined to-morrow 
by qualified persons at the same board 
as myself, most of those wealthy prac- 
titioners — not all, mind you — would 
cut an indifferent figure in modern 
science compared with me, whom you 
have had to rescue from starvation — 
because I am a woman.” 

Her eye flashed. But she moder- 
ated herself, and said, “That is the 


88 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


outline ; and it is a grievance. Now, 
grievances are bores. You can escape 
this one before it is too late.” 

“ If it lies with me, I demand the 
minutest details,” said Vizard, warm- 
ly ‘ 

“You shall have them; and true 
to the letter.” 

Vizard settled the small account, 
and adjourned, with his companion, to 
the garden. She walked by his side, 
with her face sometimes thoughtfully 
bent on the ground, and sometimes 
confronting him with ardor, and told 
him a true story, the simplicity of 
which I shall try not to spoil with 
any vulgar arts of fiction. 

A LITTLE NARRATIVE OF DRY FACTS 
TOLD TO A WOMAN-HATER BY A WOM- 
AN. 


CHAPTER XII. 

“My father was an American, my 
mother English. I was born near 
Epsom, and lived there ten years. 
Then my father had property left him 
in Massachusetts, and we went to Bos- 
ton. Both my parents educated me, 
and began very early. I observe that 
most parents are babies at teaching, 
compared with mine. My father was 
a linguist, and taught me to lisp Ger- 
man, French, and English ; my moth- 
er was an ideaed woman : she taught 
me three rarities — attention, observa- 
tion, and accuracy. If I went a walk 
in the country, I had to bring her 
home a budget: the men and women 
on the road, their dresses, appearance, 
countenances, and words ; every kind 
of bird in the air, and insect and 
chrysalis in the hedges ; the crops in 
the fields, the flowers and herbs on the 
banks. If I walked in the town, I must 
not be eyes and no eyes ; woe betide 
me if I could only report the dresses ! 
Really, I have known me, when I was 
but eight, come home to my mother 
laden with details, when perhaps an 
entrained girl of eighteen could only 


have specified that site had gone up 
and down a thoroughfare. Anoth- 
er time mother would take me on a 
visit : next day, or perhaps next week, 
she would expect me to describe ev- 
ery article of furniture in her friend's 
room, and the books on the table, and 
repeat the conversation, the topics at 
all events. She taught me to master 
history accurately. To do this she 
was artful enough to turn sport into 
science. She utilized a game : young 
people in Boston play it. A writes 
an anecdote on paper, or perhaps pro- 
duces it in print. She reads it off to 
B. B goes away, and writes it down 
by memory ; then reads her writing 
out to C. C has to listen, and convey 
her impression to paper. This she 
reads to 1), and D goes and writes it. 
Then the original story and D’s ver- 
sion are compared ; and, generally 
speaking, the difference of the two 
is a caution — against oral tradition. 
When the steps of deviation are ob- 
served, it is quite a study. 

“ My mother, with her good wit, saw 
there was something better than fun 
to be got out of this. She trained my 
memory of great things with it. She 
began with striking passages of histo- 
ry, and played the game with father 
and me. But as my power of retain- 
ing, and repeating correctly, grew by 
practice, she enlarged the business, and 
kept enriching my memory, so that I 
began to have tracts of history at my 
fingers’ ends. As I grew older, she 
extended the sport to laws and the 
great public controversies in religion, 
politics, and philosophy that have ag- 
itated the world. But here she had 
to get assistance from her learned 
friends. She was a woman valued by 
men of intellect, and she had no mer- 
cy — milked jurists, physicians, and 
theologians, and historians all into 
my little pail. To be sure, they were 
as kind about it as she was unscrupu- 
lous. They saw I was a keen student, 
and gave my mother many a little 
gem in writing. She read them out 
to me: I listened hard, and thus I 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


89 


fixed many great and good things in 
my trained memory ; and repeated 
them against the text : I was never 
allowed to see that. 

“With this sharp training, school 
subjects were child’s play to me, and 
I won a good many prizes very easily. 
My mother would not let me waste a 
single minute over music. She used 
to say ‘ Music extracts what little 
brains a girl has. Open the piano, 
you shut the understanding.’ I am 
afraid I bore you with my mother. ” 

“Not at all, not at all. I admire 
her.” 

“Oh, thank you! thank you, sir! 
She never uses big words ; so it is 
only of late I have had the nous to see 
how wise she is. She corrected the 
special blots of the female character 
in me, and it is sweet to me to talk 
of that dear friend. What would I 
give to see her here ! 

“Well, then, sir, she made me, as 
far as she could, a — what shall I say ? 
a kind of little intellectual gymnast, 
fit to begin any study; but she left 
me to choose my own line. Well, I 
was for natural history first ; began 
like a girl ; gathered wild flowers and 
simples at Epsom, along with an old 
woman ; she discoursed on their tra- 
ditional virtues, and knew little of 
their real properties : that I have dis- 
covered since. 

“ From herbs to living things ; nev- 
er spared a chrysalis, but always took 
it home, and watched it break into 
wings. Hung over the ponds in June, 
watching the eggs of the frog turn to 
tadpoles, and the tadpoles to Johnny 
Crapaud. I obeyed Scripture in one 
thing, for I studied the ants and their 
wavs. 

‘ ‘ I collected birds’ eggs. At nine, 
not a boy in the parish could find more 
nests in a day than I could. With 
birdsnesting, buying, and now and 
then begging, I made a collection that 
figures in a museum over the water, 
and is entitled ‘ Eggs of British Birds.’ 
The colors attract, and people always 


stop at it. But it does no justice 
whatever to the great variety of sea- 
birds’ eggs on the coast of Britain. 

“When I had learned what little 
they teach in schools, especially draw- 
ing, and that is useful in scientific 
pursuits, I was allowed to choose iny 
own books, and attend lectures. One 
blessed day I sat and listened to Agas- 
siz — ah! No tragedy well played, 
nor opera sung, ever moved a heart 
so deeply as he moved mine, that 
great and earnest man, whose enthu- 
siasm for nature was as fresh as my 
own, and his knowledge a thousand 
times larger. Talk of heaven opening 
to the Christian pilgrim as he passes 
Jordan ! Why, God made earth as 
well as heaven, and it is worthy of the 
Architect ; and it is a joy divine when 
earth opens to the true admirer of 
God’s works. Sir, earth opened to 
me, as Agassiz discoursed. 

“I followed him about like a little 
blood-hound, and dived into the libra- 
ries after each subject he treated or 
touched. 

“ It was another little epoch in my 
life when I read ‘ White’s Letters to 
Pennant ’ about natural history in Sel- 
borne. Selborne is an English vil- 
lage, not half so pretty as most ; and, 
until Gilbert White came, nobody saw 
any thing there worth printing. His 
book showed me that the humblest 
spot in nature becomes extraordinary 
the moment extraordinary observation 
is applied to it. I must mimic Gilbert 
White directly. I pestered my poor 
parents to spend a month or two in 
the depths of the country, on the 
verge of a forest. They yielded, with 
groans ; I kissed them, and we rusti- 
cated. I pried into every living thing, 
not forgetting my old friends, the in- 
sect tribe. Here I found ants with 
grander ideas than they have to home, 
and satisfied myself they have more 
brains than apes. They co-operate 
more, and in complicated things. Sir, 
there are ants that make greater 
marches, for their size, than Napo- 
leon’s invasion of Russia. Even the 


90 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


less nomad tribes will march through 
fields of grass, where each blade is a 
high gum-tree to them, and never 
lose the track. I saw an army of red 
ants, with generals, captains, and en- 
signs, start at day-break, march across 
a road, through a hedge, and then 
through high grass till noon, and sur- 
prise a fortification of black ants, and 
take it after a sanguinary resistance. 
All that must have been planned be- 
forehand, you know, and carried out 
to the letter. Once I found a colony 
busy on some hard ground, preparing 
an abode. I happened to have been 
miscroscoping a wasp, so I threw him 
down among the ants. They were 
disgusted. They ran about collecting 
opinions. Presently half of them 
burrowed into the earth below and 
undermined him, till he lay on a crust 
of earth as thin as a wafer, and a deep 
grave below. Then they all got on 
him except one, and lie stood pompous 
on a pebble, and gave orders. The 
earth broke — the wasp went down 
into his grave — and the ants soon cov- 
ered him with loose earth, and re- 
sumed their domestic architecture. 
I concluded that though the monkey 
resembles man most in body, the ant 
comes nearer him in mind. As for 
dogs, I don’t know where to rank 
them in nature , because they have 
been pupils of man for centuries. I 
bore vou ?” 

“No.” 

“ Oh yes, I do : an enthusiast is al- 
ways a bore. ‘ Les facheux,’ of Mo- 
liere are just enthusiasts. Well, sir, 
in one word, I was a natural philoso- 
pher — very small, but earnest ; and, 
in due course, my studies brought me 
to the wonders of the human body. 

I studied the outlines of anatomy in 
books, and plates, and prepared fig- 
ures ; and from that, by degrees, I 
was led on to surgery and medicine — 
in books, you understand ; and they 
are only half the battle. Medicine is 
a thing one can do. It is a noble 
science, a practical science, and a sub- 
tle science, where I thought my pow- 


ers of study and observation might 
help me to be keen at reading symp- 
toms, and do good to man, and be 
a famous woman ; so I concluded to 
benefit mankind and myself. Stop ! 
that sounds like self-deception. It 
must have been myself and mankind 
I concluded to benefit. Any way, I 
pestered that small section of mankind 
which consisted of my parents, until 
they consented to let me study medi- 
cine in Europe.” 

“What, all by yourself?” 

“Yes. Oh, girls are very independ- 
ent in the States, and govern the old 
people. Mine said ‘No ’ a few dozen 
times ; but they were bound to end in 
‘ Yes,’ and I went to Zurich. I stud- 
ied hard there, and earned the ap- 
probation of the professors. But the 
school deteriorated ; too many ladies 
poured in from Russia : some were 
not in earnest, and preferred flirting 
to study, and did themselves no good, 
and made the male students idle, and 
wickeder than ever — if possible.” 

“What else could you expect?” 
said Vizard. 

“ Nothing else from unpicked wom- 
en. But when all the schools in Eu- 
rope shall be open — as they ought to 
be, and must, and shall — there will 
be no danger of shallow girls crowd- 
ing to any particular school. Besides, 
there will be a more strict and rapid 
routine of examination then to sift 
out the female flirts — and the male 
dunces along with them, I hope. 

“ Well, sir, we few, that really 
meant medicine, made inquiries, and 
heard of a famous old school in the 
South of France, where women had 
graduated of old ; and two of us went 
there to try — an Italian lady and my- 
self. We carried good testimonials 
from Zurich, and, not to frighten the 
Frenchmen at starting, I attacked 
them alone. Cornelia was my elder, 
and my superior in attainments. She 
was a true descendant of those learned 
ladies who have adorned the chairs 
of philosophy, jurisprudence, anato- 
my, and medicine in her native coun- 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


91 


try; but she has the wisdom of the 
serpent, as well as of the sage ; and 
she put me forward because of my red 
hair. She said that would be a pass- 
port to the dark philosophers of 
France.” 

“Was not that rather foxy, Miss 
Gale ?” 

“Foxv as my hair itself, Mr. Viz- 
ard.” 

“ Well, I applied to a professor. 
He received me with profound courte- 
sy and feigned respect, but was stag- 
gered at my request to matriculate. 
He gesticulated and bowed a la Fran- 
faise, and begged the permission of 
his foxy- haired invader from North- 
ern climes to consult his colleagues. 
Would I do him the great honor to 
call again next day at twelve ? I did, 
and met three other polished authori- 
ties. One spoke for all, and said, If 
I had not brought with me proofs of 
serious study, they should have dis- 
suaded me very earnestly from a sci- 
ence I could not graduate in without go- 
ing through practical courses of anat- 
omy and clinical surgery. That, how- 
ever (with a regular French shrug), 
was my business, not theirs. It was 
not for them to teach me delicacy, but 
rather to learn it from me. That was 
a French sneer. The French are un 
gens moqueur , you know. I received 
both shrug and sneer like marble. He 
ended it all by saying the school had 
no written law excluding doctresses ; 
and the old records proved women 
had graduated, and even lectured, 
there. I had only to pay my fees, 
and enter upon my routine of studies. 
So I was admitted on sufferance; but 
I soon earned the good opinion of the 
professors, and of this one in partic- 
ular ; and then Cornelia applied for 
admission, and was let in too. We 
lived together, and had no secrets; 
and I think, sir, I may venture to say 
that we showed some little wisdom, if 
you consider our age, and all that was 
done to spoil us. As to parrying their 
little sly attempts at flirtation, that is 
nothing; we came prepared. But, 


when our fellow -students found we 
were in earnest, and had high views, 
the chivalrous spirit of a gallant na- 
tion took fire, and they treated us with 
a delicate reverence that might have 
turned any woman’s head. But we 
had the credit of a sneered-at sex to 
keep up, and felt our danger, and 
warned each other ; and I remember 
I told Cornelia how many young la- 
dies in the States I had seen puffed up 
by the men’s extravagant homage, 
and become spoiled children, and of- 
fensively arrogant and discourteous ; 
so I entreated her to check those vices 
in me the moment she saw them com- 
ing. 

“When we had been here a year, 
attending all the lectures — clinical 
medicine and surgery included — news 
came that one British school, Edin- 
burgh, had shown symptoms of yield- 
ing to continental civilization, and re- 
laxing monopoly. That turned me 
North directly. My mother is En- 
glish : I wanted to be a British doc- 
tress, not a French. Cornelia had 
misgivings, and even condescended to 
cry over me. But I am a mule, and 
always was. Then that dear friend 
made terms with me: I must not 
break off my connection with the 
French school, she said. No ; she had 
thought it well over ; I must ask leave 
of the French professors to study in 
the North, and bring back notes about 
those distant Thulians. Says she, 
{ Your studies in that savage island 
will be allowed to go for something 
here, if you improve your time — and 
you will be sure to, sweetheart — that 
I may be always proud of you.’ Dear 
Cornelia!” 

“Am I to believe all this?” said 
Vizard. “Can women be such true 
friends ?” 

‘ ‘ What can not women be ? What ! 
are you one of those who take us for 
a clique ? Don’t you know more 
than half mankind are women ?” 

“Alas!” 

“Alas for them!” said Iihoda, 
sharply. 


92 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


“Well, well,” said Vizard, putting 
on sudden humility, “don't let us 
quarrel. I hate quarreling — where I’m 
sure to get the worst. Ay, friendship 
is a fine thing, in men or women ; a 
far nobler sentiment than love. You 
will not admit that, of course, being a 
woman.” 

“Oh yes, I will, ” said she. “ Why, 
I have observed love attentively ; and 
I pronounce it a fever of the mind. 
It disturbs the judgment and perverts 
the conscience. You side with the 
beloved, right or wrong. What per- 
sonal degradation ! I observe, too, 
that a grand passion is a grand mis- 
fortune ; they are always in a storm 
of hope, fears, doubt, jealousy, rapt- 
ure, rage, and the end deceit, or else 
satiety. Friendship is steady and 
peaceful ; not much jealousy, no heart- 
burnings. It strengthens with time, 
and survives the small-pox and a wood- 
en leg. It doubles our joys, and di- 
vides our grief, and lights and warms 
our lives with a steady flame. Solem 
e mundo tollunt , qui tollunt ainici- 
tiam." 

‘ ‘ Halloo ! ” cried Vizard. “ What ! 
you know Latin too ?” 

“ Why, of course — a smattering; 
or how could I read Pliny, and Celsus, 
and ever so much more rubbish that 
custom chucks down before the gates 
of knowledge, and says, ‘There^-be- 
fore you go the right road, you ought 
to go the wrong; it is usual. Study 
now, with the reverence they don’t 
deserve, the non-observers of antiqui- 
ty.’” 

“Spare me the ancients, Miss 
Gale,” said Vizard, “and reveal me 
the girl of the period. When I was 
so ill-bred as to interrupt you, you 
had left France, crowned with laurels, 
and were just invading Britain.” 

Something in his words or his tone 
discouraged the subtle observer, and 
she said, coldly, “ Excuse me : I have 
hardly the courage. My British his- 
tory is a tale of injustice, suffering, 
insult, and, worst of all, defeat. I 
can not promise to relate it with that 


composure whoever pretends to sci- 
ence ought: the wound still bleeds.” 

Then Vizard was vexed with him- 
self, and looked grave and concerned. 
He said, gently, “Miss Gale, I am 
sorry to give you pain ; but what you 
have told me is so new and interest- 
ing, I shall be disappointed if you 
withhold the rest : besides, you know 
it gives no lasting pain to relate our 
griefs. Come, come — be brave, and 
tell me.” 

“Well, I will,” said she. “In- 
deed, some instinct moves me. Good 
may come of my telling it you. I 
think — somehow — you are — a — just — 
man.” 

In the act of saying this, she fixed 
her gray eyes steadily and searching- 
ly upon Vizard’s face, so that he could 
scarcely meet them, they were so pow- 
erful ; then, suddenly, the observation 
seemed to die out of them, and reflec- 
tion to take its place : those darting 
eyes were turned inward. It was a 
marked variety of power. There was 
something wizard-like in the vividness 
with which two distinct mental proc- 
esses were presented by the varied 
action of a single organ: and Vizard 
then began to suspect that a creature 
stood before him with a power of dis- 
cerning and digesting truth, such as 
he had not yet encountered either in 
man or woman. She entered on her 
British adventures in her clear silvery 
voice. It was not, like Ina Klosking's, 
rich, and deep, and tender ; vet it had 
a certain gentle beauty to those who 
love truth, because it was dispassion- 
ate, yet expressive, and cool, yet not 
cold. One might call it truth’s silver 
trumpet. 

On the brink of an extraordinary 
passage, I pause to make no fewer than 
three remarks in my own person : 1st. 
Let no reader of mine allow himself 
to fancy lihoda Gale and her ante- 
cedents are a mere excrescence of my 
story. She was rooted to it even be- 
fore the first scene of it — the meeting 
of Ashmead and the Klosking— and 
this will soon appear. 2d. She is now 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


93 


going into a controverted matter ; and, 
though she is sincere and truthful, she 
is of necessity a partisan. Do not 
take her for a judge. You be the 
judge. 3d. But, as a judge never 
shuts his mind to either side, do not 
refuse her a fair hearing. Above all, 
do not underrate the question. Let 
not the balance of your understand- 
ing be so upset by ephemeral childish- 
ness as to fancy that it matters much 
whether you break an egg top or bot- 
tom, because Gulliver’s two nations 
went to war about it ; or that it mat- 
ters much whether your queen is call- 
ed Queen of India or Empress, be- 
cause two parties made a noise about 
it, and the country has wasted ten 
thousand square miles of good paper 
on the subject, trivial as the dust on a 
butterfly’s wing. Fight against these 
illusions of petty and ephemeral minds. 
It does not matter the millionth of a 
straw to mankind whether any one 
woman is called Queen, or Empress, 
of India; and it matters greatly to 
mankind whether the whole race of 
women are to be allowed to study 
medicine and practice it, if they can 
rival the male, or are to be debarred 
from testing their scientific ability, and 
so outlawed, though taxed , in defiance 
of British liberty, and all justice, hu- 
man and divine, by eleven hundred 
lawgivers — most of ’em fools. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

“When I reached Great Britain, 
the right of women to medicine was 
in this condition — a learned lawyer 
explained it carefully to me. I will 
give you his words : The unwritten 
law of every nation admits all man- 
kind, and not the male half only, to 
the study and practice of medicine 
and the sale of drugs. In Great Brit- 
ain this law is called the common law, 
and is deeply respected. Whatever 
liberty it allows to men or women is 
hold sacred in our courts, until direct- 


ly and explicitly withdrawn by some 
act of the Legislature. Under this 
ancient liberty, women have occasion- 
ally practiced general medicine and 
surgery up to the year 1858. But 
for centuries they monopolized , by 
custom, one branch of practice, the 
obstetric ; and that, together with the 
occasional treatment of children, and 
the nursing of both sexes, which is 
semi-medical, and is their monopoly , 
seems, on the whole, to have content- 
ed them, till late years, when their 
views were enlarged by wider educa- 
tion, and other causes. But their ab- 
stinence from general practice, like 
their monopoly of obstetrics, lay with 
women themselves, and not with the 
law of England. That law is the 
same in this respect as the common 
law of Italy and France ; and the 
constitution of Bologna, where so 
many doctresses have filled the chairs 
of medicine and other sciences, makes 
no more direct provision for female 
students than does the constitution of 
any Scotch or English university. — 
The whole thing lay with the women 
themselves, and with local civilization. 
Years ago, Italy was far more civil- 
ized than England ; so Italian wom- 
en took a large sphere. Of late the 
Anglo-Saxon has gone in for civiliza- 
tion with his usual energy, and is 
eclipsing Italy ; therefore his women 
aspire to larger spheres of intellect 
and action, beginning in the States, 
because American women are better 
educated than English. The advance 
of women in useful attainments is the 
most infallible sign in any country of 
advancing civilization. All this about 
civilization is my observation, sir, and 
not the lawyer’s. Now for the law- 
yer again : Such being the law of 
England, the British Legislature pass- 
ed an act in 1858, the real object of 
which was to protect the public against 
incapable doctors, not against capable 
doctresses or doctors. The act ex- 
cludes from medical practice all per- 
sons whatever, male or female, unless 
registered in a certain register; and 


94 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


to get upon that register, the person, 
male or female, must produce a li- 
cense or diploma, granted by one of 
the British examining boards specified 
in a schedule attached to the act. 

“ Now, these examining boards were 
all members of the leading medical 
schools. If the Legislature had taken 
the usual precaution, and had added 
a clause compelling those boards to 
examine worthy applicants, the act 
would have been a sound public meas- 
ure ; but for want of that foresight — 
and without foresight a lawgiver is an 
impostor and a public pest — the State 
robbed women of their old common- 
law rights with one hand, and with 
the other enabled a respectable trades- 
union to thrust them out of their new 
statutory rights. Unfortunately, the 
respectable union, to whom the Legis- 
lature delegated an unconstitutional 
power they did not claim themselves, 
of excluding qualified persons from 
examination, and so robbing them of 
their license and their bread, had an 
overpowering interest to exclude qual- 
ified women from medicine. They 
had the same interest as the watch- 
makers’ union, the printers’, the paint- 
ers’ on china, the calico - engravers’, 
and others have to exclude qualified 
women from those branches, though 
peculiarly fitted for them ; but not 
more so than they are for the practice 
of medicine, God having made them , 
and not men, the medical, and unmu- 
sical, sex. 

“ Wherever there’s a trades-union, 
the weakest go to the wall. Those 
vulgar unions I have mentioned ex- 
clude women from skilled labor they 
excel in, by violence and conspiracy, 
though the law threatens them with 
imprisonment for it. Was it in nat- 
ure, then, that the medical union 
would be infinitely forbearing, when 
the Legislature went and patted it on 
the back, and said, you can conspire 
with safety against your female rivals. 
Of course the clique were tempted 
more than any clique could bear by 
the unwariness of the Legislature, 


and closed the doors of the medical 
schools to female applicants. Against 
unqualified female practitioners they 
never acted with such zeal and con- 
sent ; and why? The female quack 
is a public pest, and a good foil to the 
union ; the qualified doctress is a pub- 
lic good, and a blow to the union. 

“The British medical union was 
now in a fine attitude by act of Par- 
liament. It could talk its contempt 
of medical women, and act its terror 
of them, and keep both its feigned 
contempt and its real alarm safe from 
the test of a public examination — that 
crucible in which cant, surmise, and 
mendacity are soon evaporated or 
precipitated, and only the truth stands 
firm. 

“ For all that, two female practi- 
tioners got upon the register, and 
stand out, living landmarks of expe- 
rience and the truth, in the dead wil- 
derness of surmise and prejudice. 

“I will tell you how they got in. 
The act of Parliament makes two ex- 
ceptions : first, it lets in, without ex- 
amination — and that is very unwise— 
any foreign doctor who shall be prac- 
ticing in England at the date of the 
act, although, with equal incapacity, 
it omits to provide that any future 
foreign doctor shall be able to demand 
examination (in with the old foreign 
fogies, blindfold, right or wrong ; out 
with the rising foreign luminaries of 
an ever - advancing science, right or 
wrong); and, secondly, it lets in, with- 
out examination, to experiment on 
the vile body of the public, any per- 
son, qualified or unqualified, who may 
have been made a doctor by a very 
venerable and equally irrelevant func- 
tionary. Guess, now, who it is that 
a British Parliament sets above the 
law, as a doctor-maker for that pub- 
lic it professes to love ancj protect!” 

“The Regius Professor of Medi- 
cine ?” 

“No.” 

“Tyndall?” 

“No.” 

“Huxley?” 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


95 


“No.” 

“ Then I give it up.” 

“The Archbishop of Canterbury.” 

“ Oh, come ! a joke is a joke.” 

“This is no joke. Bright monu- 
ment of British flunkeyism and imbe- 
cility, there stands the clause setting 
that reverend and irrelevant docior- 
maker above the law, which sets his 
grace’s female relations below the 
law, and, in practice, outlaws the 
whole female population, starving 
those who desire to practice medicine 
learnedly, and oppressing those who, 
out of modesty, not yet quite smoth- 
ered by custom and monopoly, desire 
to consult a learned female physician, 
instead of being driven, like sheep, by 
iron tyranny — in a country that bab- 
bles Liberty — to a male physician or 
a female quack. 

“ Well, sir, in 1849 Miss Elizabeth 
Blackwell fought the good fight in 
the United States, and had her trou- 
bles ; because the States were not so 
civilized then as now. She gradu- 
ated doctor at Geneva, in the State 
of New York. 

“She was practicing in England 
in 1858, and demanded her place on 
the register. She is an Englishwom- 
an by birth ; but she is an English 
M.D. only through America having 
more brains than Britain. This one 
islander sings, ‘Hail, Columbia!’ as 
often as ‘ God save the Queen !’ I 
reckon. 

“Miss Garrett, an enthusiastic stu- 
dent, traveled north, south, east, and 
west, and knocked in vain at the 
doors of every great school and uni- 
versity in Britain, but at last found a 
chink in the iron shutters of the Lon- 
don Apothecaries’. It seems Parlia- 
ment was wiser in 1815 than in 1858, 
for it inserted a clause in the Apothe- 
caries Act of 1815 compelling them 
to examine all persons who should 
apply to them for examination after 
proper courses of study. Their char- 
ter contained no loop-hole to evade 
the act, and substitute ‘ him ’ for ‘per- 
son so they let Miss Garrett in as a 


student. Like all the students, she 
had to attend lectures on chemiotry, 
botany, materia medica, zoology, nat- 
ural philosophy, and clinical surgery. 
In the collateral subjects they let her 
sit with the male students ; but in 
anatomy and surgery she had to at- 
tend the same lectures privately, 
and pay for lectures all to herself. 
This cost her enormous fees. How- 
ever, it is only fair to say that, if she 
had been one of a dozen female stu- 
dents, the fees would have been dif- 
fused ; as it was, she had to gild the 
pill out of her private purse. 

“In the hospital teaching she 
met difficulties and discouragement, 
though she asked for no more oppor- 
tunities than are granted readily to 
professional nurses and female ama- 
teurs. But the whole thing is a mere 
money question ; that is the key to 
every lock in it. 

“She was freely admitted at last 
to one great hospital, and all went 
smoothly till some surgeon examined 
the students viva voce; then Miss 
Garrett was off* her guard, and dis- 
played too marked a superiority ; 
thereupon the male students played 
the woman, and begged she might be 
excluded ; and, I am sorry to say, for 
the credit of your sex, this unmanly 
request was complied with by the 
womanish males in power. 

“ However, at her next hospital, 
Miss Garrett was more discreet, and 
took pains to conceal her galling su- 
periority. 

“All her trouble ended — where 
her competitors’ began — at the pub- 
lic examination. She passed brill- 
iantly, and is an English apothecary. 
In civilized France she is a learned 
physician. 

“She had not been an apothecary 
a week, before the Apothecaries’ So- 
ciety received six hundred letters from 
the medical small -fry in town and 
country ; they threatened to send no 
more boys to the Apothecaries’, but 
I to the College of Surgeons, if ever 
. another woman received an ap.othe- 


96 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


cary’s license. Now, you know, all 
inen tremble in England at the threats 
of a trades-union; so the apothecaries 
instantly cudgeled their brains to find 
a way to disobey the law, and obey 
the union. The medical press gave 
them a hint, and they passed a by- 
law, forbidding their students to re- 
ceive any part of their education pri- 
vately, and made it known, at the 
same time, that their female students 
would not be allowed to study the 
leading subjects publicly. And so 
they baffled the Legislature, and out- 
lawed half the nation, by a juggle 
which the press and the public would 
have risen against, if a single grown- 
up man had been its victim, instead 
of four million adult women. Now, 
you are a straightforward man ; what 
do you think of that ?” 

“Humph!” said Vizard. “I do 
not altogether approve it. The strong 
should not use the arts of the weak 
in fighting the weak. But, in spite 
of your eloquence, I mean to forgive 
them any thing. Shakspeare has 
provided them with an excuse that 
fits all time : 

“ ‘ Our poverty, but not our will, con- 
sents.’ ” 

“Poverty! the poverty of a com- 
pany in the city of London ! Allons 
done. Well, sir, for years after this 
all Europe, even Russia, advanced in 
civilization, and opened their medical 
schools to women ; so did the United 
States: only the pig-headed Briton 
stood stock-still, and gloried in his 
minority of one ; as if one small isl- 
and is likely to be right in its mono- 
mania, and all civilized nations wrong. 

“ But while I was studying in 
France, one lion-hearted English- 
woman was moving our native isle. 
First she tried the University of Lon- 
don ; and that sets up for a liberal 
foundation. Answer — ‘Our charter 
is expressly framed to exclude wom- 
en from medical instruction.’ 

Then she sat down to besiege 
Edinburgh. Now, Edinburgh is a 


very remarkable place. It has only 
half the houses, but ten times the in- 
tellect, of Liverpool or Manchester. 
And the university has two advan- 
tages as a home of science over the 
English universities : it is far behind 
them in Greek, which is the language 
of error and nescience, and before 
them in English, and that is a tongue 
a good deal of knowledge is printed 
in. Edinburgh is the only centre of 
British literature, except London. 

‘ ‘ One medical professor received 
the pioneer with a concise severity, 
and declined to hear her plead her 
cause, and one received her almost 
brutally. He said, ‘No respectable 
woman would apply to him to study 
medicine.’ Now, respectable women 
were studying it all over Europe.” 

“ Well, but perhaps his soul lived 
in an island.” 

“That is so. However, personal 
applicants must expect a rub or two ; 
and most of the professors, in and out 
of medicine, treated her with kindness 
and courtesy. 

“Still, she found even the friend- 
ly professors alarmed at the idea of a 
woman matriculating, and becoming 
Civis Edinensis ; so she made a mod- 
erate application to the Senate, viz., 
for leave to attend medical lectures. 
This request was indorsed by a major- 
ity of the medical professors, and 
granted. But on the appeal of a few 
medical professors against it, the Sen- 
ate suspended its resolution, on the 
ground that there was only one ap- 
plicant. 

“This got wind, and other ladies 
came into the field directly, your 
humble servant among them. Then 
the Senate felt bound to recommend 
the University Court to admit such 
female students to matriculate as 
could pass the preliminary examina- 
tion ; this is in history, logic, lan- 
guages, and other branches ; and we 
prepared for it in good faith. It was 
a happy time : after a good day s 
work, I used to go up the Calton 
Hill, or Arthur’s Seat, and view the 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


97 


sea, and the Piraeus, and the violet 
hills, and the romantic undulations 
of the city itself, and my heart glow- 
ed with love of knowledge, and with 
honorable ambition. I ran over the 
names of worthy women who had 
adorned medicine at sundry times 
and in divers places, and resolved to 
deserve as great a name as any in 
history. Refreshed by my walk — I 
generally walked eight miles, and 
practiced gymnastics to keep my 
muscles hard — I used to return to 
my little lodgings ; and they too 
were sweet to me, for I was learning 
a new science — logic.” 

“ That was a nut to crack.” 

“ I have met few easier or sweeter. 
One non-observer had told me it was 
a sham science, and mere pedantry ; 
another, that it pretended to show 
men a way to truth without observ- 
ing. I found, on the contrary, that 
it was a very pretty little science, 
which does not affect to discover phe- 
nomena, but simply to guard men 
against rash generalization, and false 
deductions from true data. It taught 
me the untrained world is brimful of 
fallacies and verbal equivoques that 
ought not to puzzle a child, but, 
whenever they creep into an argu- 
ment, do actually confound the learn- 
ed and the simple alike, and all for 
want of a month's logic. 

“Yes, I was happy on the hill, and 
happy by the hearth ; and so things 
went on till the preliminary examina- 
tion came. It was not severe; we 
ladies all passed with credit, though 
many of the male aspirants failed.” 

“flow do you account for that?” 
asked Vizard. 

“With my eyes. I observe that 
the average male is very superior in 
intellect to the average female ; and 
I observe that the picked female is 
immeasurably more superior to the 
average male, than the average male 
is to the average female.” 

“ Is it so simple as that?” 

“Ay; why not? What! are you 
one of those who believe that Truth 


is obscure — hides herself — and lies in 
a well ? I tell you, sir, Truth lies in 
no well. The place Truth lies in is — 
the middle of the turnpike-road. But 
one old fogy puts on his green specta- 
cles to look for her, and another his 
red, and another his blue; and so 
they all miss her, because she is a 
colorless diamond. Those spectacles 
are preconceived notions, a priori 
reasoning, cant, prejudice, the depth 
of Mr. Shallow’s inner consciousness, 
etc., etc. Then comes the observer , 
opens the eyes that God has given 
him, tramples on all colored specta- 
cles, and finds Truth as surely as the 
spectacled theorists miss her. Say 
that the intellect of the average male 
is to the average female as ten to six, 
it is to the intellect of the picked fe- 
male as ten to a hundred and fifty, or 
even less. Now, the intellect of the 
male Edinburgh student was much 
above that of the average male, but 
still it fell far below that of the pick- 
ed female. All the examinations at 
Edinburgh showed this to all God’s 
unspectacled creatures that used their 
eyes. ” 

These remarks hit Vizard hard. 
They accorded with his own good 
sense and method of arguing; but 
perhaps my more careful readers may 
have already observed this. He nod- 
ded hearty approval for once, and she 
went on : 

“We had now a right to matricu- 
late, and enter on our medical course. 
But, to our dismay, the right was sus- 
pended. The proofs of our gener- 
al proficiency, which we hoped would 
reconcile the professors to us as stu- 
dents of medicine, alarmed people, 
and raised us unscrupulous enemies 
in some who were justly respected, 
and others who had influence, though 
they hardly deserved it. 

“A general council of the uni- 
versity was called to reconsider the 
pledge the Senate had given us, and 
overawe the university court by the 
weight of academic opinion. The 
court itself was fluctuating, and ready 


98 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


to turn either way. A large number 
of male students co-operated against 
us with a petition. They, too, were 
a little vexed at our respectable fig- 
ure in the preliminary examination. 

“The assembly met, and the union 
orator got up ; he was a preacher of 
the Gospel, and carried the weight of 
that office. Christianity, as well as 
science, seemed to rise against us in 
his person. He made a long and el- 
oquent speech, based on the intelli- 
gent surmises and popular prejudices 
that were diffused in a hundred lead- 
ing articles, and in letters to the ed- 
itor by men and women, to whom his- 
tory was a dead letter in modern con- 
troversies ; for the Press battled this 
matter for two years, and furnished 
each party with an artillery of rea- 
sons, pro and con. 

“ He said, ‘Woman’s sphere is the 
hearth and the home : to impair her 
delicacy is to take the bloom from the 
peach : she could not qualify for med- 
icine without mastering anatomy and 
surgery — branches that must unsex 
her. Providence, intending her to 
be man’s helpmate, not his rival, had 
given her a body unfit for war or 
hard labor, and a brain four ounces 
lighter than a man’s, and unable to 
cope with long study and practical 
science. In short, she was too good, 
and too stupid, for medicine.’ 

“It was eloquent, but it was a pri- 
ori reasoning, and conjecture versus 
evidence: yet the applause it met 
with showed one how happy is the or- 
ator 4 qui hurle avec les loups.’ Tak- 
ing the scientific preacher’s whole the- 
ory in theology and science, woman 
was high enough in creation to be the 
mother of God, but not high enough 
to be a sawbones. 

“Well, a professor of belles-lettres 
rose on our side, not with a rival the- 
ory, but with facts. He was a pupil 
of Lord Bacon, and a man of the 
nineteenth century ; so he objected 
to a priori reasoning on a matter of 
experience. To settle the question 
of capacity he gave a long list of 


women who had been famous in sci- 
ence. Such as Bettesia Gozzadini, 
Novella Andrea, Novella Calderini, 
Maddelena Buonsignori, and many 
more, who were doctors of law and 
university professors : Dorotea Boc- 
chi, who was professor both of philos- 
ophy and medicine ; Laura Bassi, 
who was elected professor of philoso- 
phy in 1782 by acclamation, and aft- 
erward professor of experimental phys- 
ics ; Anna Manzolini, professor of 
anatomy in 1760; Gaetana Agnesi, 
professor of mathematics ; Christina 
Roccati, doctor of philosophy in 1750 ; 
Clotilde Tambroni, professor of Greek 
in 1793 ; Maria Dalle Donne, doctor 
of medicine in 1799; Zaffira Ferretti, 
doctor of medicine in 1800; Maria 
Sega, doctor of medicine in 1799; 
Madalena Noe, graduate of civil law 
in 1807. Ladies innumerable, who 
graduated in law and medicine at 
Pavia, Ferrara, and Padua, including 
Elena Lucrezia Cornaro of Padua, a 
very famous woman. Also in Sala- 
manca, Alcala, Cordova, he named 
more than one famous doctress. Also 
in Heidelberg, Gdttingen, Giessen, 
Wurzburg, etc., and even at Utrecht, 
with numberless graduates in the arts 
and faculties at Montpellier and Paris 
in all ages. Also outside reputations, 
as of Doctor Bouvin and her moth- 
er, acknowledged celebrities in their 
branch of medicine. This chain, he 
said, has never been really broken. 
There was scarcely a great foreign 
university without some female stu- 
dent of high reputation. There were 
such women at Vienna and Peters- 
burg; many such at Zurich. At Mont- 
pellier Mademoiselle Doumergue was 
carrying all before her, and Miss Gar- 
rett and Miss Mary Putnam at Paris, 
though they were weighted in the race 
by a foreign language. Let the male 
English physician pass a stiff exami- 
nation in scientific French before he 
brayed so loud. He had never done 
it yet. This, he said, is not an age 
of chimeras ; it is a wise and wary 
age, which has established iri all 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


99 


branches of learning a sure test of 
ability in man or woman — public ex- 
amination followed by a public report. 
These public examinations are all con- 
ducted by males, and women are pass- 
ing them triumphantly all over Europe 
and America, and graduate as doctors 
in every civilized country, and even in 
half-civilized Russia. 

“ He then went into our own little 
preliminary examination, and gave 
the statistics : In Latin were exam- 
ined 55 men and 3 women : 10 men 
were rejected, hut no women ; 7 men 
were respectable, 7 optirni , or first- 
rate, 1 woman bona , and 1 optima. 
In mathematics were examined 67 
men and 4 women, of whom 1 wom- 
an was optima, and 1 bona : 1 0 men 
were optirni , and 25 boni ; the rest 
failed. In German 2 men were ex- 
amined, and 1 woman : 1 man was 
good, and 1 woman. In logic 28 men 
were examined, and 1 woman : the 
woman came out fifth in rank, and 
she had only been at it a month. In 
moral philosophy 16 men were exam- 
ined, and 1 woman : the woman came 
out third. In arithmetic, 51 men 
and 3 women: 2 men were optirni, 
and 1 woman optima ; several men 
failed, and not one woman. In me- 
chanics, 81 men and 1 woman: the 
woman passed with fair credit, as did 
13 men ; the rest failing. In French 
were examined 58 men and 4 women : 
3 men and 1 woman were respecta- 
ble ; 8 men and 1 woman passed ; two 
women attained the highest excel- 
lence, optima, and not one man. In 
English, 63 men and 3 women : 3 
men were good, and 1 woman ; but 2 
women wer e optima, and only l man.” 

“Fancy you remembering figures 
like that,” said Vizard. 

“ It is all training and habit,” said 
she, simply. 

“As to the study and practice of 
medicine degrading women, he asked 
if it degraded men. No; it elevated 
them. They could not contradict 
him on that point. He declined to 
believe, without a particle of evidence, 


that any science could elevate the 
higher sex and degrade the lower. 
What evidence we had ran against it. 
Nurses are not, as a class, unfemi- 
nine, yet all that is most appalling, 
disgusting, horrible, and unsexing in 
the art of healing is monopolized by 
them. Women see worse things than 
doctors. Women nurse all the pa- 
tients of both sexes, often under hor- 
rible and sickening conditions, and 
lay out all the corpses. No doctor ob- 
jects to this on sentimental grounds; 
and why ? Because the nurses get 
only a guinea a week, and not a guin- 
ea a flying visit : to women the loath- 
some part of medicine ; to man the 
lucrative! The noble nurses of the 
Crimea went to attend males only, yet 
were not charged with indelicacy. 
They worked gratis. The would-be- 
doctresses look mainly to attending 
women , but then they want to be paid 
for it: there was the rub — it was a 
mere money question, and all the at- 
tempts of the union to hide this and 
play the sentimental shop-man were 
transparent hypocrisy and humbug. 

“A doctor justly revered in Edin- 
burgh answered him, but said noth- 
ing new nor effective; and, to our 
great joy, the majority went with us. 

“Thus encouraged, the university 
court settled the matter. We were 
admitted to matriculate and study 
medicine, under certain conditions, 
to which I beg your attention. 

“The instruction of women for the 
profession of medicine was to be con- 
ducted in separate classes confined en- 
tirely to women. 

“The professors of the Faculty of 
Medicine should, for this purpose, be 
permitted to have separate classes for 
women. 

“All these regulations were ap- 
proved by the chancellor, and are to 
this day a part of the law of that 
university. 

“ We ladies, five in number, but 
afterward seven, were matriculated 
and registered professional students 
of medicine, and passed six delightful 


100 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


months we now look back upon, as if 
it was a happy dream. 

“We were picked women, all in 
earnest. We deserved respect, and 
we met with it. The teachers were 
kind, and we attentive and respect- 
ful : the students were courteous, and 
we were affable to them, but discreet. 
Whatever seven young women could 
do to earn esteem, and reconcile even 
our opponents to the experiment, we 
did. There was not an anti-student, 
or downright flirt, among us ; and, 
indeed, I have observed that an ear- 
nest love of study and science controls 
the amorous frivolity of women even 
more than men’s. Perhaps our heads 
are really smaller than men’s, and we 
haven’t room in them to be like Sol- 
omon — extremely wise and arrant 
fools. 

“This went on until the first pro- 
fessional examination ; but, after the 
examination, the war, to our conster- 
nation, recommenced. Am I, then, 
bad-hearted for thinking there must 
have been something in that exami- 
nation which roused the sleeping spirit 
of trades-unionism ?” 

“It seems probable.” 

“Then view that probability by the 
light of fact : 

“In physiology the male students 
were 127 ; in chemistry, 226 : 25 ob- 
tained honors in physiology ; 31 in 
chemistry. 

“ In physiology and chemistry there 
were five women. One obtained hon- 
ors in physiology alone ; four obtain- 
ed honors in both physiology and 
chemistry. 

“So, you see, the female students 
beat the male students in physiology 
at the rate of five to one; and in 
chemistry, seven and three-quarters 
to one. 

“But, horrible to relate, one of the 
ladies eclipsed twenty-nine out of the 
thirty-one gentlemen who took honors 
in chemistry. In capacity she sur- 
passed them all ; for the two, who 
were above her, obtained only two 
marks more than she did, yet they 


had been a year longer at the study. 
This entitled her to 4 a Hope Scholar- 
ship ’ for that year. 

“Would you believe it? the schol- 
arship was refused her — in utter de- 
fiance of the founder’s conditions — on 
the idle pretext that she had studied 
at a different hour from the male 
students, and therefore was not a 
member of the chemistry class.” 

“Then why admit her to the com- 
petition ?” said Vizard. 

“Why? because the a priori rea- 
soners took for granted she would be 
defeated. Then the cry would have 
been, ‘You had your chance; we let 
you try for the Hope Scholarship ; 
but you could not win it.’ Having 
won it, she was to be cheated out of 
it somehow, or anyhow. The sepa- 
rate-class system was not that lady’s 
fault ; she would have preferred to pay 
the university lecturer lighter fees, 
and attend a better lecture with the 
male students. The separate class 
was an unfavorable condition of 
study, which the university imposed 
on us, as the condition of admitting 
us to the professional study of medi- 
cine? Surely, then, to cheat that 
lady out of her Hope Scholarship, 
when she had earned it under condi- 
tions of study enforced and unfavor- 
able, was perfidious and dishonest. 
It was even a little ungrateful to the 
injured sex ; for the money which 
founded these scholarships was wom- 
en’s money, every penny of it. The 
good Professor Hope had lectured to 
ladies fifty years ago ; had taken 
their fees, and founded his scholar- 
ships with their money : and it would 
have done his heart good to see a lady 
win and wear that prize which, but 
for his female pupils, would never 
have existed. But it is easy to tram- 
ple on a dead man : as easy as on liv- 
ing women. 

“ The perfidy was followed by ruth- 
less tyranny. They refused to* admit 
the fair criminal to the laboratory, 
‘else,’ said they, ‘she’ll defeat more 
men.’ 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


“That killed her, as a chemist. It 
gave inferior male students too great 
an advantage over her. And so the 
public and Professor Hope were sac- 
rificed to a trades-union, and lost a 
great analytical chemist, and some- 
thing more — she had, to my knowl- 
edge, a subtle diagnosis. Now we 
have at present no yreat analyst, and 
the few competent analysts we have 
do not possess diagnosis in propor- 
tion. They can find a few poisons 
in the dead, but they are slow to dis- 
cover them in the living ; so they are 
not to be counted on to save a life, 
where crime is administering poison. 
That woman could, and would, I 
think. 

“They drove her out of chemistry, 
wherein she was a genius, into sur- 
gery, in which she was only a talent. 
She is now house-surgeon in a great 
hospital, and the public has lost a 
great chemist and diagnostic physi- 
cian combined. 

“Up to the date of this enormity, 
the Press had been pretty evenly di- 
vided for and against us. But now, 
to their credit, they were unanimous, 
and reprobated the juggle as a breach 
of public faith and plain morality. 
Backed by public opinion, one friend- 
ly professor took this occasion to move 
the university to relax the regulation 
of separate classes since it had been 
abused. He proposed that the female 
students should be admitted to the or- 
dinary classes. 

“This proposal was negatived by 
58 to 47. 

“This small majority was gained 
by a characteristic manoeuvre. The 
queen’s name was gravely dragged in 
as disapproving the proposal, when, in 
fact, it could never have been submit- 
ted to her, or her comment, if any, 
must have been in writing; and as to 
the general question, she has never 
said a public word against medical 
women. She has too much sense not 
to ask herself how can any woman be 
fit to be a queen, with powers of life | 
and death, if no woman is fit to be so i 


101 

small a thing, by comparison, as a 
physician or a surgeon. 

“We were victims of a small ma- 
jority, obtained by imagination play- 
ing upon flunkeyism, and the first re- 
sult was, we were not allowed to sit 
down to botany with males. Mind 
you, we might have gathered black- 
berries with them in umbrageous 
woods from morn till dewy eve, and 
not a professor shocked in the whole 
faculty ; but we must not sit down 
with them to an intellectual dinner 
of herbs, and listen, in their compa- 
ny, to the pedantic terms and childish 
classifications of botany, in which kin- 
dred properties are ignored. Only 
the male student must be told in pub- 
lic that a fox-glove is Digitalis pur- 
purea in the improved nomenclature 
of science, and crow-foot is Ranuncu- 
lus sceleratus , and the buck- bean is 
Menyanthis trifoliata , and mugwort 
is Artemesia Judaica; and that, hav- 
ing lost the properties of hyssop known 
to Solomon, we regain our superiori- 
ty over that learned Hebrew by chris- 
tening it Gratiola officinalis. The 
sexes must not be taught in one room 
to discard such ugly and inexpressive 
terms as snow-drop, meadow- sweet, 
heart’s-ease, fever-few, cowslip, etc., 
and learn to know the cowslip as Pri- 
mula veris — by class, Pentandria mon- 
ogynia; and the buttercup as Ranun- 
culus acris — Polyandria monogynia; 
the snow-drop as Galanthus nivalis 
— Hexandria monogynia; and the 
meadow-sweet as Ulnaria; the 
heart’s-ease as Viola tricolor; and 
the daisy as Beilis perennis — Synge- 
nesia super flua." 

“Well,” said Vizard, “I think the 
individual names can only hurt the 
jaws and other organs of speech. 
But the classifications! Is the mild 
lustre of science to be cast over the 
natural disposition of young women 
toward Polyandria monogynia ? Is 
trigamy to be identified in their sweet 
souls with floral innocence, and their 
victims sitting by ?” 

“Such classifications are puerile 


102 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


and fanciful,” said Miss Gale ; “but, 
for that very reason, they don’t infect 
animals with trigamy. Novels are 
much more likely to do that.” 

“Especially ladies’ novels,” sug- 
gested Vizard, meekly. 

“Some,” suggested the accurate 
Rhoda. “But the sexes will never 
lose either morals or delicacy through 
courses of botany endured together. 
It will not hurt young ladies a bit to 
tell them in the presence of young 
gentlemen that a cabbage is a thala- 
mifloral exogen, and its stamens are 
tetradynamous ; nor that the mush- 
room, Psalliata campestris, and the 
toad - stool, My oena campestris , are 
confounded by this science in one 
class, Cryptogamia. It will not even 
hurt them to be told that the proper- 
ties of the Arum maculatum are little 
known, but that the males are crowd- 
ed round the centre of the spadix, and 
the females seated at the base.” 

Said Vizard, pompously, “The pul- 
pit and the tea-table are centres of 
similar phenomena. Now I think of 
it, the pulpit is a very fair calyx, but 
the tea-table is sadly squat. ” 

“Yes, sir. But, more than that, 
not one of these pedants who growled 
at promiscuous botany has once object- 
ed to promiscuous dancing, not even 
with the gentleman’s arm round the 
lady’s waist, which the custom of cent- 
uries can not render decent. Yet the 
professors of delicacy connive, and the 
Mother Geese sit smirking at the wall. 
O world of hypocrites and humbugs!” 

“I am afraid you are an upsetter 
general,” said Vizard. “But you are 
abominably sincere ; and all this is a 
curious chapter of human nature. 
Pray proceed.” 

Miss Gale nodded gravely, and re- 
sumed. 

“ So much public ridicule fell on 
the union for this, and the blind flunk- 
yism which could believe the queen 
had meddled in the detail, that the 
professors melted under it, and threw 
open botany and natural history to us, 
with other collateral sciences. 


“Then came the great fight, which 
is not ended yet, 

“To qualify for medicine and pass 
the stiff examination, by which the 
public is very properly protected, you 
must be versed in anatomy and clin- 
ical surgery. Books and lectures do 
not suffice for this, without the human 
subject — alive and dead. The univer- 
sity court knew that very well when 
it matriculated us, and therefore it 
provided for our instruction by prom- 
ising us separate classes. 

“ Backed by this public pledge, we 
waited on the university professor of 
anatomy to arrange our fees for a 
separate lecture. He flatly refused 
to instruct us separately for love or 
money, or to permit his assistants. 
That meant, ‘ the union sees a way 
to put you in a cleft stick and cheat 
you out of your degree, in spite of the 
pledge the university has given you ; 
in spite of your fees, and of your time 
given to study in reliance on the 
promise.’ 

“This was' a heavy blow. But 
there was an extramural establish- 
ment called Surgeons’ Hall, and the 
university formally recognized all the 
lecturers in this Hall ; so we applied 
to those lecturers, and they were 
shocked at the illiberality of the uni- 
versity professors, and admitted us at 
once to mixed classes. We attended 
lectures with the male students on 
anatomy and surgery, and of all the 
anticipated evils, not one took place , 
sir. 

“The objections to mixed classes 
proved to be idle words ; yet the old- 
fashioned minds opposed to us shut 
their eyes and went on reasoning a 
priori, and proving that the evils 
which they saw did not arise must 
arise should the experiment of mixed 
classes, which was then succeeding, 
ever be tried. 

“To qualify us' for examination, 
we now needed but one thing more — 
hospital practice. The infirmary is 
supported not so much by the univer- 
sity as the town. We applied, there- 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


fore, with some confidence, for the 
permission usually conceded to med- 
ical students. The managers refused 
us the town infirmary . Then we ap- 
plied to the subscribers. The major- 
ity, not belonging to a trades-union, 
declared in our favor, and intimated 
plainly that they would turn out the 
illiberal managers at the next election 
of managers. 

“But by this time the war was hot 
and general, and hard blows dealt on 
both sides. It was artfully suppress- 
ed by our enemies in the profession 
and in the Press that we had begged 
hard for the separate class which had 
been promised us in anatomy, and 
permission to attend, by ourselves, a 
limited number of wards in the infirm- 
ary ; and on this falsehood by sup- 
pression worse calumnies were built. 

“I shall tell you what we really 
were, and what foul mouths and pens 
insinuated we must be. 

“Two accomplished women had 
joined us, and we were now the seven 
wise virgins of a half-civilized nation, 
and, if I know black from whitej we 
were seven of its brightest ornaments. 
We were seven ladies, who wished to 
be doctresses, especially devoted to 
our own sex ; seven good students, 
who went on our knees to the univer- 
sity for those separate classes in anat- 
omy and clinical surgery which the 
university was bound in honor to sup- 
ply us ; but, our prayer rejected, said 
to the university, ‘ Well, use your own 
discretion about separate or mixed 
classes ; but for your own credit, and 
that of human nature, do not willfully 
tie a hangman’s noose to throttle the 
weak and deserving, and don’t cheat 
seven poor, hard-working, meritorious 
women, your own matriculated stu- 
dents, out of our entrance-fees, which 
lie to this day in the university cof- 
fers, out of the exceptionally heavy 
fees we have paid to your professors, 
out of all the fruit of our hard study, 
out of our diplomas, and our bread. 
Solve the knot your own way. We 
will submit to mixed classes, or any 


103 

thing, except professional destruc- 
tion.’ 

“In this spirit our lion-hearted 
leader wrote the letter of an unin- 
jured dove, and said there were a 
great many more wards in the in- 
firmary than any male student could 
or did attend; we would be content 
to divide the matter thus : the male 
students to have the monopoly of two- 
thirds, we to have the bare right of 
admission to one-third. By this the 
male students (if any) who had a sin- 
cere objection to study the sick, and 
witness operations, in our company, 
could never be troubled with us ; and 
we, though less favored than the male 
students, could just manage to qualify 
for that public examination, which 
was to prove whether we could make 
able physicians or not. 

“ Sir, this gentle proposal was re- 
jected with rude scorn, and in ag- 
gressive terms. Such is the spirit of 
a trades-union. 

“Having now shown you what we 
were, I will now tell you what our en- 
emies, declining to observe our con- 
duct, though it was very public, sug- 
gested we must be — seven shameless 
women, who pursued medicine as a 
handle for sexuality; who went into 
the dissecting-room to dissect males, 
and into the hospital to crowd round 
the male patient, and who demanded 
mixed classes, that we might have 
male, companions in those studies 
which every feminine woman would 
avoid altogether. 

“ This key-note struck, the public 
was regaled with a burst of hypocri- 
sy such as Moliere never had the luck 
to witness, or oh, what a comedy he 
would have written l 

“The immodest sex, taking ad- 
vantage of Moliere’s decease without 
heirs of his brains, set to work in pub- 
lic to teach the modest sex modesty. 

“ In the conduct of this pleasant 
paradox, the representatives of that 
sex, which has much courage and lit- 
tle modesty, were two professors — 
who conducted the paradox so judi- 


104 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


ciously that the London Press repri- 
manded them for their foul insinua- 
tions — and a number of young men 
called medical students. 

“Now, the medical student sur- 
passes most young men in looseness 
of life, and indecency of mind and 
speech. 

“The representatives of woman- 
hood to be instructed in modesty by 
these animals, old and young, were 
seven prudes, whose minds were de- 
voted to study and honorable ambi- 
tion. These women were as much 
above the average of their sex in fem- 
inine reserve and independence of the 
male sex as they were in intellect. 

“The average girl, who through- 
out this discussion was all of a sud- 
den puffed as a lily, because she 
ceased to be observed , can attend to 
nothing if a man is by; she can’t 
work, she can’t play, she is so eaten 
up with sexuality. The frivolous 
soul can just manage to play croquet 
with females ; but, enter a man upon 
the scene, and she does even that very 
ill, and can hardly be got to take her 
turn in the only thing she has really 
given her mind to. We were angels 
compared with this paltry creature, 
and she was the standing butt of pub- 
lic censure, until it was found that an 
imaginary picture of her could be 
made the handle for insulting her bet- 
ters. 

“Against these seven prudes, de- 
cent dotards and their foul-mouthed 
allies flung out insinuations which 
did not escape public censure; and 
the medical students declared their 
modesty was shocked at our intrusion 
into anatomy and surgery, and peti- 
tioned against us. Some of the Press 
were deceived by this for a time, and 
hurlaient avec les loups. 

“I took up, one day, my favorite 
weekly, in which nearly every writer 
seems to me a scholar, and was re- 
galed with such lines as these : 

“ ‘ It appears that girls are to as- 
sociate with boys as medical students, 
in order that, when they become 


women, they may be able to speak to 
men with entire plainness upon all the 
subjects of a doctor’s daily practice. 

“ ‘In plain words, the aspirants to 
medicine and surgery desire to rid 
themselves speedily and effectually 
of that modesty which nature has 
planted in women.’ And then the 
writer concludes : ‘We beg to suggest 
that there are other places besides 
dissecting-rooms and hospitals where 
those ladies may relieve themselves 
of the modesty which they find so 
troublesome. But fathers naturally 
object to this being done at their sons’ 
expense.’ ” 

“ Infamous !” cried Vizard. “ One 
comfort, no man ever penned that. 
That is some old woman writing 
down young ones.” 

“ I don’t know,” said Rhoda. “I 
have met so many womanish men in 
this business. All I know is, that 
my cheeks burned, and, for once in 
the fight, scalding tears ran down 
them. It was as if a friend had spat 
upon me.” 

“ What a chimera ! What a mon- 
strous misinterpretation of pure minds 
by minds impure ! To us the dissect- 
ing-room was a temple, and the dead 
an awe, revolting to all our senses, 
until the knife revealed to our minds 
the Creator’s hand in structural beau- 
ties that the trained can appreciate, 
if wicked dunces can’t. 

“And as to the infirmary, we 
should have done just what we did 
at Zurich. We held a little aloof 
from the male patients, unless some 
good-natured lecturer, or pupil, gave 
us a signal, and then we came for- 
ward. If we came uninvited, we al- 
ways stood behind the male students : 
but we did crowd round the beds of 
the female patients, and claimed the 
inner row: and, sir, they thanked 
God for us openly. 

“A few awkward revelations were 
made during this discussion. A med- 
ical student had the candor to write 
and say that he had been at a lecture, 
and the professor had told an indeli- 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


105 


cate story, and, finding it palatable to 
his modest males, had said, ‘There, 
gentlemen : now, if female students 
were admitted here, I cotdd not have 
told you this amusing circumstance.’ 
So that it was our purifying influence 
he dreaded in secret, though he told 
the public, he dreaded the reverse. 

“Again, female patients wrote to 
the journals to beg that female stu- 
dents might be admitted to come be- 
tween them and the brutal curiosity 
of the male students, to which they 
were subjected in so offensive a way, 
that more than one poor creature de- 
clared she had felt agonies of shame, 
even in the middle of an agonizing 
operation. 

“ This being a cry from that pub- 
lic for whose sake the whole clique 
of physicians — male and female — ex- 
ists, had, of course, no great weight 
in the union controversy. 

“But, sir, if grave men and wom- 
en will sit calmly down and fling dirt 
upon every woman who shall aspire 
to medicine in an island, though she 
can do so on a neighboring continent 
with honor, and choose their time 
when the dirt can only fall on seven 
known women — since the female stu- 
dents in that island are only seven — 
the pretended generality becomes a 
cowardly personality, and wounds as 
such, and excites less cold-hearted, 
and more hot-headed blackguards to 
outrage. It was so at Philadelphia, 
and it was so at Edinburgh. 

“Our extramural teacher in anat- 
omy was about to give a competitive 
examination. Now, on these occa- 
sions, we were particularly obnox- 
ious. Often and clearly as it had 
been proved, by a priori reasoning, 
that we must be infinitely inferior to 
the average male, we persisted in 
proving, by hard fact, that we were 
infinitely his superior ; and every ex- 
amination gave us an opportunity of 
crushing solid reasons under hollow 
fact. 

“ A band of medical students de- 
termined that for once a priori rea- 
5 * 


soning should have fair play, and not 
be crushed by a thing so illusory as 
fact. Accordingly, they got the gates 
closed, and collected round them. We 
came up, one after another, and were 
received with hisses, groans, and abu- 
sive epithets. 

“This mode of reasoning must have 
been admirably adapted to my weak 
understanding; for it convinced me 
at once I had no business there, and 
I was for private study directly. 

“But, sir, you know the ancients 
said, ‘ Better is an army of stags with 
a lion for their leader, than an army 
of lions with a stag for their leader.’ 
Now, it so happened that we had a 
lioness for our leader. She pushed 
manfully through the crowd, and 
hammered at the door: then we 
crept quaking after. She ordered 
those inside to open the gates ; and 
some student took shame, and did. 
In marched our lioness, crept after 
by her — her — ” 

“Her cubs.” 

“A thousand thanks, good sir. 
Her does. On second thoughts, ‘ her 
hinds.’ Doe is the female of buck. 
Now, I said stags. Well, the ruffians 
who had undertaken to teach us mod- 
esty swarmed in too. They dragged 
a sheep into the lecture-room, lighted 
pipes, prod need bottles, drank, smoked, 
and abused us ladies to our faces, 
and interrupted the lecturer at inter- 
vals with their howls and ribaldry: 
that was intended to show the profess- 
or he should not be listened to any 
more if he admitted the female stu. 
dents. The affair got wind, and oth- 
er students, not connected with medi- 
cine, came pouring in, with no worse 
motive, probably, than to see the lark. 
Some of these, however, thought the 
introduction of the sheep unfair to so 
respected a lecturer, and proceeded to 
remove her ; but the professor put up 
his hand, and said, ‘ Oh, don’t remove 
her: she is superior in intellect to 
many persons here present.’ 

“At the end of the lecture, think- 
ing us in actual danger from these 


106 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


ruffians, he offered to let us out by a 
side door; but our lioness stood up 
and said, in a voice that rings in my 
ear even now, ‘ Thank you, sir ; no. 
There are gentlemen enough here to 
escort us safely.’ 

4 4 The magic of a great word from 
a great heart, at certain moments 
when minds are heated! At that 
word, sir, the scales fell from a hun- 
dred eyes ; manhood awoke with a 
start, ay, and chivalry too; fifty man- 
ly fellows were round us in a moment, 
with glowing cheeks and eyes, and 
they carried us all home to our sever- 
al lodgings in triumph. The coward- 
ly caitiffs of the trades-union howled 
outside, and managed to throw a lit- 
tle dirt upon our gowns, and also 
hurled epithets, most of which were 
new to me ; but it has since been 
stated by persons more versed in the 
language of the canaille that no foul- 
er terms are known to the dregs of 
mankind. 

“Thus did the immodest sex, in 
the person of the medical student, 
outrage seven fair samples of the 
modest sex — to teach them modesty. 

“Next morning the police magis- 
trates dealt with a few of our teach- 
ers, inflicted severe rebukes on them, 
and feeble fines. 

“The craftier elders disowned the 
riot in public, but approved it in pri 
vate ; and continued to act in con- 
cert with it, only with cunning, not 
violence. It caused no honest revul- 
sion of feeling, except in the disgust- 
ed public, and they had no power to 
help us. 

44 The next incident was a stormy 
debate by the subscribers to the in- 
firmary ; and here we had a little 
feminine revenge, which, outraged as 
we had been, I hope you will not 
grudge ns. 

“Our lioness subscribed five 
pounds, and became entitled to vote 
and speech. As the foulest epithets 
had been hurled at her by the union, 
and a certain professor had told her, 
to her face, no respectable woman 


would come to him and propose to 
study medicine, she said, publicly, 
that she had come to his opinion, 
and respectable women would avoid 
him — which caused a laugh. 

44 She also gave a venerable old 
physician, our bitter opponent, a slap 
that was not quite so fair. His at- 
tendant had been concerned in that 
outrage, and she assumed — in which 
she was not justified — that the old 
doctor approved. ‘To be sure,’ said 
she, ‘they say he was intoxicated, 
and that is the only possible excuse.’ 

44 The old doctor had only to say 
that he did not control his assistants 
in the street; and his own mode of 
conducting the opposition, and his 
long life of honor, were there to cor- 
rect this young woman’s unworthy 
surmises, and she would have had to 
apologize for going too far on mere 
surmise. But, instead of that, he 
was so injudicious as to accuse her 
of foul language, and say, 4 My at- 
tendant is a perfect gentleman ; he 
would not be my attendant if he were 
not.’ 

“Our lioness had him directly. 

4 Oh,’ said she, 4 if Dr. So-and-so pre- 
fers to say that his attendant com- 
mitted that outrage on decency when 
in his sober senses, I am quite con- 
tent. ’ 

“This was described as violent in- 
vective by people with weak memo- 
ries, who had forgotten the nature of 
the outrage our lioness was comment- 
ing on ; but in truth it was only su- 
perior skill in debate, with truth to 
back it. 

“For my part, I kept the police 
report at the time, and have com- 
pared it with her speech. The judi- 
cial comments on those rioters are far 
more severe than hers. The truth 
is, it was her facts that hit too hard, 
not her expressions. 

“Well, sir, she obtained a majori- 
ty ; and those managers of the infirm- 
ary who objected to female students 
were dismissed, and others elected. 
At the same meeting the Court of 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


107 


Contributors passed a statute, making 
it the law of the infirmary that stu- 
dents should be admitted without re- 
gard to sex. 

“But as to the mere election of 
managers, the other party demanded 
a scrutiny of the votes, and instruct- 
ive figures came out. There voted 
with us twenty-eight firms, thirty-one 
ladies, seven doctors. 

“There voted with the union four- 
teen firms, two ladies, thirty -seven 
doctors , and three druggists . 

“Thereupon the trades-union, as 
declared by the figures, alleged that 
firms ought not to vote. Nota bene , 
they always had voted unchallenged 
till they voted for fair play to women. 

“The union served the provost with 
an interdict not to declare the new 
managers elected. 

“ We applied for our tickets under 
the new statute, but were impudently 
refused, under the plea that the man- 
agers must first be consulted : so did 
the servants of the infirmary defy the 
masters in order to exclude us. 

“By this time the great desire of 
women to practice medicine had be- 
gun to show itself. Numbers came in 
and matriculated; and the pressure 
on the authorities to keep faith, and 
relax the dead-lock they had put us 
in, was great. 

“ Thereupon the authorities, in- 
stead of saying, ‘We have pledged 
ourselves to a great number of persons, 
and pocketed their fees,’ took fright, 
and cast about for juggles. They af- 
fected to discover all of a sudden that 
they had acted illegally in matricula- 
ting female students. They would, 
therefore, not give back their fees, and 
pay them two hundred pounds apiece 
for breach of contract, but detain their 
fees and stop their studies until com- 
pelled by judicial decision to keep 
faith. Observe, it was under advice 
of the lord-justice-general they had 
matriculated us, and entered into a 
contract with us, for fulfilling which 
it was not , and is not , in the power of 
any mortal man to punish them. 


“But these pettifoggers said this: 
‘ We have acted illegally, and there- 
fore not we, but you , shall suffer : we 
will profit by our illegal act, for we 
will cheat you out of your fees to the 
university and your fees to its pro- 
fessors, as well as the seed-time of 
your youth that we have wasted.’ 

“ Now, in that country they can get 
the opinions of the judges by raising 
what they call an action of declara- 
tor. 

“ One would think it was their bus- 
iness to go to the judges, and mean- 
time give us the benefit of the legal 
doubt, while it lasted, and of the mor- 
al no -doubt, which will last till the 
day of judgment, and a day after. 

“ Not a hit of it. They deliberate- 
ly broke their contract with us, kept 
our fees, and cheated us out of the 
article we had bought of them, dis- 
owned all sense of morality, yet shift- 
ed the burden of law on to our shoul- 
ders. Litigation is long. Perfidy 
was in possession. Possession is nine 
points. The female students are now 
sitting with their hands before them, 
juggled out of their studies, in plain de- 
fiance of justice and public faith, wait- 
ing till time shall show them whether 
provincial lawyers can pettifog as well 
as trades-union doctors. 

“As for me, I had retired to civil- 
ized climes long before this. I used 
to write twice a week to my parents, 
but I withheld all mention of the out- 
rage at Surgeons’ Hall. I knew it 
would give them useless pain. But 
in three weeks or so came a letter from 
my father, unlike any other I ever 
knew him write. It did not even be- 
gin, ‘My dear child.’ This was what 
he said (the words are engraved in my 
memory) : ‘ Out of that nation of cow- 
ards and skunks ! out of it this mo- 
ment, once and forever! The States 
are your home. Draft on London in- 
closed. Write to me from France 
next week, or write to me no more. 
Graduate in France. Then come 
North, and sail from Havre to New 
York. You have done with Britain, 


108 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


and so have I, till our next war. 
Pray God that mayn’t be long!’ 

“It was like a lion’s roar of an- 
guish. I saw my dear father’s heart 
was bursting with agony and rage at 
the insult to his daughter, and I shed 
tears for him those wretches had nev- 
er drawn from me. 

“ I had cried at being insulted by 
scholars in the Press ; but what was 
it to me that the scum of the medical 
profession, which is the scum of God’s 
whole creation, called me words I did 
not know the meaning of, and flung 
the dirt of their streets, and the filth 
of their'souls, after me ? I was fright- 
ened a little, that is all. But that 
these reptiles could wound my darling 
old lion’s heart across the ocean ! Sir, 
he was a man who could be keen and 
even severe with men, but every virt- 
uous woman was a sacred thing to 
him. Had he seen one, though a 
stranger, insulted as we were, he 
would have died in her defense. 
He was a true American. And to 
think the dregs of mankind could 
wound him for his daughter, and so 
near the end of his own dear life. 
Oh !” She turned her head away. 

“My poor girl!” said Vizard, and 
his own voice was broken. 

When he said that, she gave him 
her hand, and seemed to cling to his 
a little; but she turned her head 
away from him and cried, and even 
trembled a little. 

But she very soon recovered her- 
self, and said she would try to end 
her story. It had been long enough. 

“Sir, my father had often obeyed 
me; but now I knew I must obey 
him. I got testimonials in Edin- 
burgh, and started South directly. 
In a week I was in the South of 
Prance. Oh, what a change in peo- 
ple’s minds by mere change of place ! 
The professors received me with win- 
ning courtesy ; some hats were lifted 
to me in the street, with marked re- 
spect ; flowers were sent to my lodg- 
ings by gentlemen who never once 
intruded on me in person. I was in 


a civilized land. Yet there was a 
disappointment for me. I inquired 
for Cornelia. The wretch had just 
gone and married a professor. I 
feared she was up to no good, by her 
writing so seldom of late. 

“I sent her a line that an old 
friend had returned, and had not for- 
gotten her, nor our mutual vows. 

“She came directly, and was for 
caressing away her crime, and dis- 
solving it in crocodile tears ; but I 
played the injured friend and the ty- 
rant. 

“Then she curled round me, and 
coaxed, and said, ‘Sweetheart, I can 
advance your interests all the better. 
You shall be famous for us both. I 
shall be happier in your success than 
in my own.’ 

“ In short, she made it very hard 
to hold spite ; and it ended in feeble- 
minded embraces. Indeed, she was 
of service to me. I had a favor to 
ask : I wanted leave to count my 
Scotch time in France. 

“My view was tenable; and Cor- 
nelia, by her beauty and her. populari- 
ty, gained over all the professors to it 
but one. He stood out. 

“Well, sir, an extraordinary oc- 
currence befriended me; no, not ex- 
traordinary — unusual. 

“I lodged on a second floor. The 
first floor was very handsome. A 
young Englishman and his wife took 
it for a week. She was musical — a 
real genius. The only woman I ever 
heard sing without whining; for we 
are, by nature, the medical and un- 
musical sex.” 

“So you said before.” 

“I know I did; and I mean to 
keep saying it till people see it. 
Well, the young man was taken vio- 
lently and mysteriously ill ; had syn- 
cope after syncope, and at last ceased 
to breathe. 

“The wife was paralyzed, and sat 
stupefied, and the people about fear- 
ed for her reason. 

“After a time they begged me to 
come down and talk to her. Of 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


course I went. I found her with her 
head upon bis knees. I sat down 
quietly, and looked at him. He was 
young and beautiful, but with a femi- 
nine beauty ; his head finely shaped, 
with curly locks that glittered in the 
sun, aiid one golden lock lighter than 
the rest; his eyes and eyelashes, his 
oval face, his white neck, and his 
white hand, all beautiful. His left 
hand rested on the counterpane. 
There was an emerald ring on one 
finger. He was like some beauti- 
ful flower cut down. I can see him 
now. 

“The woman lifted her head and 
saw me. She had a noble face, 
though now distorted and wild. 

“She cried, ‘Tell me he is not 
dead! tell me he is not dead!’ and 
when I did not reply, the poor creat- 
ure gave a wild cry, and her senses 
left her. We carried her into anoth- 
er room. 

“While the women were bringing 
her to, an official came to insist on 
the interment taking place. They 
are terribly expeditious in the South 
of France. 

“ This caused an altercation, and 
the poor lady rushed out; and find- 
ing the officer peremptory, flung her 
arms round the body, and said they 
should not be parted — she would be 
buried with him. 

“The official was moved, but said 
the law was strict, and the town must 
conduct the funeral unless she could 
find the sad courage to give the nec- 
essary instructions. With this he 
was going out, inexorable, when all 
of a sudden I observed something 
that sent my heart into my mouth, 
and I cried ‘Arretez!’ so loud that 
every body stared. 

“ I said, ‘ You must wait till a 
physician has seen him ; he has 
moved a finger.’ 

“ I stared at the body, and they all 
stared at me. 

“He had moved a finger. When 
I first saw him, his fingers were all 
close together; but now the little 


109 

finger was quite away from the third 
finger — the one with the ring on. 

“I felt his heart, and found a lit- 
tle warmth about it, but no percepti- 
ble pulse. I ordered them to take 
off his sheet and put on blankets, but 
not to touch him till I came back 
with a learned physician. The wife 
embraced me, all trembling, and 
promised obedience. I got a fiacre 
and drove to Dr. Brasseur, who was 
my hostile professor, but very able. 
I burst on him, and told him I had 
a case of catalepsy for him — it 
wasn’t catalepsy, you know, but phy- 
sicians are fond of Greek ; they pre- 
fer the wrong Greek word to the 
right English. So I called it ‘cata- 
lepsy,’ and said I believed they were 
going to bury a live man. He shrug- 
ged his shoulders, and said that was 
one of the customs of the country. 
He would come in an hour. I told 
him that would not do, the man would 
be in his coffin ; he must come direct- 
ly. He smiled at my impetuosity, 
and yielded. 

“I got him to the patient. He 
examined him, and said he might be 
alive, but feared the last spark was 
going out. He dared not venture on 
friction. We must be wary. 

“Well, we tried this stimulant and 
that, till at last we got a sigh out of 
the patient ; and I shall not forget the 
scream of joy at that sigh, which made 
the room ring, and thrilled us all. 

“By-and-by I was so fortunate as 
to suggest letting a small stream of 
water fall from a height on his head 
and face. We managed that, and by- 
and-by were rewarded with a sneeze. 

“ I think a sneeze must revivify 
the brain wonderfully, for he made 
rapid progress, and then we tried 
friction, and he got well very quick. 
Indeed, as he had nothing the matter 
with him, except being dead, he got 
ridiculously well, and began paying us 
fulsome compliments, the doctor and 
me. 

“So then we handed him to his 
joyful wife. 


110 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


“They talk of crying for joy, as if 
it was done every day. I never saw 
it but once, and she was the woman. 
!She made a curious gurgle; but it 
was very pretty. I was glad to have 
seen it, and very proud to be the 
cause. 

“The next day that pair left. 
He was English ; and so many good- 
natured strangers called on him that 
he fled swiftty, and did not even bid 
me good-bye. However, I was told 
they both inquired for me, and were 
sorry I was out when they went.” 

“ How good of them !” said Vizard, 
turning red. 

“Oh, never mind, sir ; I made use 
of him. I scribbled an article that 
very day, entitled it, ‘While there’s 
life there’s hope,’ and rushed with it 
to the editor of a journal. He took 
it with delight. I wrote it a la Fran- 
yaise : picture of the dead husband, 
mourning wife, the impending inter- 
ment ; effaced myself entirely, and 
said the wife had refused to bury him 
until Dr. Brasseur, whose fame had 
readied her ears, had seen the body. 
To humor her, the doctor was applied 
to, and, his benevolence being equal 
to his science, he came : when, lo ! a 
sudden surprise ; the swift, unerring 
eye of science detected some subtle 
sign that had escaped the lesser lumi- 
naries. He doubted the death. He 
applied remedies ; he exhausted the 
means of his art, with little avail at 
first, but at last a sigh was elicited, 
then a sneeze ; and, marvelous to 
relate, in one hour the dead man was 
sitting up, not convalescent, but well. 
I concluded with some reflections on 
this most important case of suspended 
animation very creditable to the profes- 
sion of medicine, and Dr. Brasseur.” 

‘ ‘ There was a fox ! ” 

“ Well, look at my hair. What 
else could you expect? I said that 
before too. 

“My notice published, I sent it to 
the doctor, with my respects, but did 
not call on him. However, one day 
he met me, and greeted me with a 


low bow. ‘ Mademoiselle,’ said he, 
‘you were always a good student; 
but now you show the spirit of a con- 
frere, , and so gracefully, that we are 
all agreed we must have you for one 
as soon as possible.’ 

“ I courtesied, and felt my face red, 
and said I should be the proudest 
woman in France. 

“‘Grand Dieu,’ said he, ‘I hope 
not; for your modesty is not the 
least of your charms.’ 

“So, the way was made smooth, 
and I had to work hard, and in about 
fourteen months I was admitted to 
my final examination. It was a se- 
vere one, but I had some advantages. 
Each nation has its wisdom, and I 
had studied in various schools. 

“Being a linguist, with a trained 
memory, I occasionally backed my 
replies with a string of French, Ger- 
man, English, and Italian authorities 
that looked imposing. 

“ In short, I did pass with public 
applause, and cordial felicitation ; 
they quite feted me. The old wel- 
comed me ; the young escorted me 
home, and flung flowers over me at 
my door. I re-appeared in the bal- 
cony, and said a few words of grati- 
tude to them and their noble nation. 
They cheered, and dispersed. 

“ My heart was in a glow. I turn- 
ed my eyes toward New York : a 
fortnight more, and my parents should 
greet me as a European doctress, if 
not a British. 

“ The excitement had been too 
great ; I sunk, a little exhausted, on 
the sofa. They brought me a letter. 
It was black-edged. I tore it open 
with a scream. My father was 
dead.” 


CHAPTER XIV. 

“I was prostrated, stupefied. I 
don’t know what I did, or how long I 
sat there. But Cornelia came to con- 
gratulate me, and found me there like 
stone, with the letter in my hand. 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


Ill 


She packed up my clothes, and took 
me home with her. I made no re- 
sistance. I seemed all broken and 
limp, soul and body, and not a tear 
that day. 

“Oh, sir, how small every thing 
seems beside bereavement ! My 
troubles, my insults, were nothing 
now ; my triumph nothing ; for I 
had no father left to be proud of it 
with me. 

“I wept with anguish a hundred 
times a day. Why had I left New 
York ? Why had I not foreseen this 
every-day calamity, and passed every 
precious hour by his side 1 was to lose? 

“Terror seized me. My mother 
would go next. No life of any value 
was safe a day. Death did not wait 
for disease. It killed because it chose, 
and to show its contempt of hearts. 

“ But just as I was preparing to go 
to Havre, they brought me a tele- 
gram. I screamed at it, and put up 
my hands. I said ‘ No, no I would 
not read it, to be told my mother was 
dead. I would have her a few min- 
utes longer. Cornelia read it, and 
said it was from her. I fell on it, 
and kissed it. The blessed telegram 
told she was coming home. I was 
to go to London and wait for her. 

“I started. Cornelia paid mv 
fees, and put my diploma in my box. 
I cared for nothing now but my own 
flesh and blood — what was left of it — 
my mother. 

“ I reached London, and telegraph- 
ed my address to my mother, and 
begged her to come at once and ease 
my fears. I told her my funds were 
exhausted ; but, of course, that was 
not the thing I poured out my heart 
about ; so I dare say she hardly re- 
alized my deplorable condition — list- 
less and bereaved, alone in a great 
city, with no money. 

“ In her next letter she begged me 
to be patient. She had trouble with 
her husband’s executors ; she would 
send me a draft as soon as she could ; 
but she would not leave, and let her 
child be robbed. 


“By -and -by the landlady pressed 
me for money. I gave her my gowns 
and shawls to sell for me.” 

“Goose!” 

“And just now I was a fox.” 

“You are both. But so is every 
woman.” 

“She handed me a few shillings, 
by way of balance. I lived on them 
till they went. Then I starved a lit- 
tle.” 

“With a ring on your finger you 
could have pawned for ten guineas !” 

“Pawn mv ring! My father gave 
it me.” She kissed it tenderly, yet, 
to Vizard, half defiantly. 

“Pawning is not selling, goose!” 
said he, getting angry. 

“ But I must have parted with it.” 

“And you preferred to starve ?” 

“ I preferred to starve,” said she, 
steadily. 

He looked at her. Her eyes faced 
his. He muttered something, and 
walked away three steps to hide un- 
reasonable sympathy. He came back 
with a grand display of cheerfulness. 
“Your mother will be here next 
month,” said he, “with money in 
both pockets. Meantime I wish you 
would let me have a finger in the pie 
— or, rather my sister. She is warm- 
hearted and enthusiastic ; she shall 
call on you, if you will permit it. ” 

“ Is she like you ?” 

“Not a bit. We are by different 
mothers. Hers was a Greek, and 
she is a beautiful, dark girl.” 

“I admire beauty; but is she like 
you — in — in — disposition ?” 

“ Lord ! no ; very superior. Not 
abominably clever like you, but ab- 
surdly good. You shall judge for 
yourself. Oblige me with your ad- 
dress.” 

The doctress wrote her address with 
a resigned air, as one who had found 
somebody she had to obey ; and, as 
soon as he had got it, Vizard gave 
her a sort of nervous shake of the 
hand, and seemed almost in a hurry 
to get away from her. But this was 
his way. 


112 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


She would have been amazed if she 
had seen his change of manner the 
moment he got among his own peo- 
ple. 

He burst in on them, crying, 

“ There — the prayers of this congre- 
gation are requested for Harrington 
Vizard, saddled with a virago.” 

“ Saddled with a virago!” scream- 
ed Fanny. 

“Saddled with a — !” sighed Zoe, 
faintly. 

“ Saddled with a virago for life !” 
shouted Vizard, with a loud defiance 
that seemed needless, since nobody 
was objecting violently to his being 
saddled. 

“Look here!” said he, descending 
all of a sudden to a meek, injured air, 
which, however, did not last very 
long, “ I was in the garden of Leices- 
ter Square, and a young lady turned 
faint. I observed it, and, instead of 
taking the hint and cutting, I offered 
assistance — otf my guard, as usual. 
She declined. I persisted ; proposed 
a glass of wine or spirit. She declined, 
but at last let out she was starving.” 

“ Oh !” cried Zoe. 

“Yes, Zoe — starving. A woman 
more learned, more scientific, more 
eloquent, more offensive to a fellow’s 
vanity, than I ever saw, or even read 
of — a woman of genius , starving, like 
a genius and a ninny, with a ring on 
her finger worth thirty guineas. But 
my learned goose would not raise mon- 
ey on that, because it was her father’s, 
and he is dead.” 

“Poor thing!” said Zoe, and her 
eyes glistened directly. 

“It is hard, Zoe, isn’t it? She is 
a physician — an able physician ; has 
studied at Zurich and at Edinburgh, 
and in France, and has a French di- 
ploma; but must not practice in En- 
gland, because we are behind the Con- 
tinent in laws and civilization — so she 
says, confound her impudence, and 
my folly for becoming a woman’s 
echo ! But if I were to tell you her 
whole story, your blood would boil at 
the trickery, and dishonesty, and op- 


pression of the trades-union which 
has driven this gifted creature to a 
foreign school for education ; and, 
now that a foreign nation admits her 
ability and crowns her with honor, 
still she must not pratice in this coun- 
try, because she is a woman, and we 
are a nation of half- civilized men. 
That is her chat, you understand, not 
mine. We are not obliged to swallow 
all that ; but, turn it how you will, 
here are learning, genius, and virtue 
starving. We must get her to accept 
a little money ; that means, in her 
case, a little fire and food. Zoe, shall 
that woman go to bed hungry to- 
night ?” 

“No, never!” said Zoe, warmly. 

‘ ‘ Let me think. Offer her a loan. ” 

“Well done; that is a good idea. 
Will you undertake it ? She will be 
far more likely to accept. She is a 
bit of a prude and all, is my virago.” 

“Yes, dear, she will. Order the 
carriage. She shall not go to bed 
hungry — nobody shall that you are 
interested in.” 

“ Oh, after dinner will do.” 

Dinner was ordered immediately, 
and the brougham an hour after. 

At dinner, Vizard gave them all the 
outline of the Edinburgh struggle, 
and the pros and cons ; during which 
narrative his female hearers might 
have been observed to get cooler and 
cooler, till they reached the zero of 
perfect apathy. They listened in 
dead silence; but when Harrington 
had done, Fanny said aside to Zoe, 
“ It is all her own fault. What bus- 
iness have women to set up for doc- 
tors ?” 

“ Of course not,” said Zoe ; “ only 
we must not say so. He indulges us 
in our whims.” 

Warm partisan of immortal justice, 
when it was lucky enough to be back- 
ed by her affections, Miss Vizard rose 
directly after dinner, and, with a fine 
imitation of ardor, said she could lose 
no more time — she must go and put 
on her bonnet. “You will come with 
me, Fanny ?” 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


113 


When I was a girl, or a boy — I for- 
get which, it is so long ago — a young 
lady thus invited by an affectionate 
friend used to do one of two things ; 
nine times out of ten site sacrificed 
her inclination, and went ; the tenth, 
she would make sweet, engaging ex- 
cuses, and beg off. But the girls of 
this day have invented “silent voli- 
tion.” When you ask them to do any 
thing they don’t quite like, they look 
you in the face, bland but full, and 
neither speak nor move. Miss Dover 
was a proficient in this graceful form 
of refusal by dead silence, and resist- 
ance by placid inertia. She just look- 
ed like the full moon in Zoe’s face, 
and never budged. Zoe, being also 
a girl of the day, needed no interpre- 
tation. “Oh, very well,” said she, 
“disobliging thing!” — with perfect 
good humor, mind you. 

Vizard, however, was not pleased. 

“You go with her, Ned,” said he. 
“Miss Dover prefers to stay and 
smoke a cigar with me.” 

Miss Dover’s face reddened, but 
she never budged. And it ended in 
Zoe taking Severne with her to call 
on Rhoda Gale. 

Rhoda Gale staid in the garden 
till sunset, and then went to her lodg- 
ings slowly, for they had no attraction 
— a dark room; no supper; a hard 
landlady, half disposed to turn her 
out. 

Dr. Rhoda Gale never reflected 
much in the streets ; they were to her 
a field of minute observation ; but, 
when she got home, she sat down and 
thought over what she had been say- 
ing and doing, and puzzled over the 
character of the man who had relieved 
her hunger and elicited her autobiog- 
raphy. She passed him in review; 
settled in her mind that he was a 
strong character ; a manly man, who 
did not waste words ; wondered a lit- 
tle at the way he had made her do 
whatever he pleased ; blushed a little 
at the thought of having been so com- 
municative; yet admired the man for 
having drawn her out so; and won- 


dered whether she should see him 
again. She hoped she should. But 
she did not feel sure. 

She sat half an hour thus — with one 
knee raised a little, and her hands in- 
terlaced — by a fire-place with a burn- 
ed-out coal in it; and by-and-by she 
felt hungry again. But she had no 
food, and no money. 

She looked hard at her ring, and 
profited a little by contact with the 
sturdy good sense of Vizard. 

She said to herself, “Men under- 
stand one another. I believe father 
would be angry with me for not.” 

Then she looked tenderly and wist- 
fully at the ring, and kissed it, and 
murmured, “ Not to-night.” You see 
she hoped she might have a letter in 
the morning, and so respite her ring. 

Then she made light of it, and said 
to herself, “No matter; ‘qui dort, 
dine.’” 

But as it was early for bed, and 
she could not be long idle, sipping 
no knowledge, she took up the last 
good German work that she had 
bought when she had money, and 
proceeded to read. She had no can- 
dle, but she had a lucifer- match or 
two, and an old newspaper. With 
this she made long spills, and lighted 
one, and read two pages by that pa- 
per torch, and lighted another before 
it was out, and then another, and so on 
in succession, fighting for knowledge 
against poverty, as she had fought for 
it against perfidy. 

While she was thus absorbed, a 
carriage drew up at the door. She 
took no notice of that ; but presently 
there was a rustling of silk on the 
stairs, and two voices, and then a tap 
at the door. “Come in,” said she-, 
and Zoe entered just as the last spill 
burned out. 

Rhoda Gale rose in a dark room ; 
but a gas-light over the way just show- 
ed her figure. “Miss Gale?” said 
Zoe, timidly. 

“I am Miss Gale,” said Rhoda, 
quietly, but firmly. 

“1 am Miss Vizard- -the gentle- 


114 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


man's sister that you met in Leices- 
ter Square to-day;” and she took a 
cautious step toward her. 

Rhoda’s cheeks burned. 

“Miss Vizard,” she said, “excuse 
my receiving you so ; but you may 
have heard I am very poor. My last 
candle is gone. But perhaps the 
landlady would lend me one. I don’t 
know. She is very disobliging, and 
very cruel. ” 

“ Then she shall not have the hon- 
or of lending you a candle,” said Zoe, 
with one of her gushes. “Now, to 
tell the truth,” said she, altering to 
the cheerful, “ I’m rather glad. I 
would rather talk to you in the dark 
for a little, just at first. May I?” 
By this time she had gradually crept 
up to Rlioda. 

“ I am afraid you must," said Rlioda. 
“ But at least I can offer you a seat.” 

Zoe sat down, and there was an 
awkward silence. 

“Oh, dear,” said Zoe; “I don’t 
know how to begin. I wish you 
would give me your hand, as I can’t 
see your face.” 

“ With all my heart : there.” 

(Almost in a whisper) “He has 
told me.” 

Rhoda put the other hand to her 
face, though it was so dark. 

“Oh, Miss Gale, how could you? 
Only think! Suppose you had killed 
yourself, or made yourself very ill. 
Your mother would have come direct- 
ly and found you so; and only think 
how unhappy vou would have made 
her.” 

“Can I have forgotten my moth- 
er?” asked Rhoda of herself, but 
aloud. 

“Not willfully, I am sure. But 
you know geniuses are not always 
wise in these little things. They 
want some good humdrum soul to 
advise them in the common affairs 
of life. That want is supplied you 
now : for I am here — ha-ha !” 

“ You are no more commonplace 
than I am ; much less now, I’ll be 
bound.” 


“We will put that to the test,” 
said Zoe, adroitly enough. “My 
view of all this is — that here is a 
young lady in want of money for a 
time , as every body is now and then, 
and that the sensible course is to bor- 
row some till your mother comes over 
with her apronful of dollars. Now, I 
have twenty pounds to lend, and, if 
you are so mighty sensible as you say, 
you won’t refuse to borrow it.” 

“Oh, Miss Vizard, you are very 
good ; but I am afraid and ashamed 
to borrow. I never did such a thing. ” 

“Time you began, then. I have 
— often. But it is no use arguing. 
You must — or you will get poor me 
finely scolded. Perhaps he was on 
his good behavior with you, being a 
stranger; but at home they expect 
to be obeyed. He will be sure to 
say it was my stupidity, and that he 
would have made you directly.” 

“Do tell!” cried Rhoda, surprised 
into an idiom ; “as if I’d have taken 
money from him !” 

“ Why, of course not ; but between 
us it is nothing at all. There:” and 
she put the money into Rhoda’s hand, 
and then held both hand and money 
rather tightly imprisoned in her larger 
palm, and began to chatter, so as to 
leave the other no opening. “Oh, 
blessed darkness ! how easy it makes 
things ! does it not ? I am glad there 
was no candle ; we should have been 
fencing and blushing ever so long, 
and made such a fuss about nothing 
— and — ” 

This prattle was interrupted by Rho- 
da Gale putting her right wrist round 
Zoe’s neck, and laying her forehead 
on her shoulder with a little sob. So 
then they both distilled the inevitable 
dew-drops. 

But as Rhoda was not much given 
that way, she started up, and said, 
“Darkness? No; I must see the 
face that has come here to help me, 
and not humiliate me. That is the 
first use I’ll make of the money. I 
am afraid you are rather plain, or 
you couldn’t be so good as all this.” 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


“No,” said Zoe. “I’m not reck- 
oned plain ; only as black as a coal.” 

“All the more to my taste,” said 
Rhoda, and flew out of the room, 
and nearly stumbled over a figure 
seated on a step of the staircase. 
“Who are you?” said she, sharply. 

“My name is Severne.” 

“And what are you doing there?” 

“Waiting for Miss Vizard.” 

“ Come in, then.” 

“ She told me not.” 

“Then I tell you to. The idea! 
Miss Vizard !” 

“Yes!” 

“Please have Mr. Severne in. Here 
he is sitting — like Grief — on the steps. 
I will soon be back.” 

She flew to the landlady. “Mrs. 
Grip, I want a candle.” 

“Well, the shops are open,” said 
the woman, rudely. 

“Oh, I have no time. Here is a 
sovereign. Please give me two can- 
dles directly, candlesticks and all.” 

The woman’s manner changed di- 
rectly. 

“You shall have them this moment, 
miss, and my own candlesticks, which 
they are plated.” 

She brought them, and advised her 
only to light one. “They don’t car- 
ry well, miss,” said she. “ They are 
wax — or summat.” 

“Then they are summat, ’’said Miss 
Gale, after a single glance at their 
composition. 

“ I'll make you a nice hot supper, 
miss, in half an hour,” said the wom- 
an, maternally, as if she were going 
to yive it her. 

“ No, thank you. Bring me a two- 
penny loaf, and a scuttle of coals.” 

“La, miss, no more than that — 
out of a sov’ ?” 

“Yes — THE CHANGE.” 

Having shown Mrs. Grip her fa- 
ther was a Yankee, she darted up- 
stairs with her candles. Zoe came 
to meet her, and literally dazzled 
her. 

Rhoda stared at her with amaze- 
ment and growing rapture. “Oh, 


115 

you beauty!” she cried, and drank 
her in from head to foot. 

“Well, ’’said she, drawing a long 
breath, “Nature, you have turned 
out a com -plete article this time, I 
reckon.” Then, as Severne laughed 
merrily at this, she turned her can- 
dle and her eyes full on him very 
briskly. She looked at him for a 
moment, with a gratified eye at his 
comeliness; then she started. “Oh!” 
she cried. 

He received the inspection merrily, 
till she uttered that ejaculation, then 
he started a little, and stared at her. 

“We have met before,” said she, 
almost tenderly. 

“ Have we?” said he, putting on a 
mystified air. 

She fixed him, and looked him 
through and through. “You — 
don’t — remember — me?” asked she. 
Then, after giving him plenty of time 
to answer, “Well, then, I must be 
mistaken and her words seemed to 
freeze themselves and her as they fell. 

She turned her back on him, and 
said to Zoe, with a good deal of 
sweetness and weight, “I have lived 
to see goodness and beauty united. 
I will never despair of human nat- 
ure.” 

This was too point-blank for Zoe ; 
she blushed crimson, and said, arch- 
ly, “ I think it is time for me to run. 
Oh, but I forgot ; here is my card. 
We are all at that hotel. If I am so 
very attractive, you will come and see 
me — we leave town very soon — will 
you ?” 

“ I will,” said Rhoda. 

“And since you took me for an old 
acquaintance, I hope you will treat 
me as one,” said Severne, with con- 
summate grace and assurance. 

“I will, sir," said she, icily, and 
with a marvelous curl of the lip that 
did not escape him. 

She lighted them down the stairs, 
gazed after Zoe, and ignored Severne 
altogether. 


116 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


CHAPTER XV. 

Going home in the carriage, Zoe 
was silent, but Severne talked nine- 
teen to the dozen. Had his object 
been to hinder his companion’s mind 
from dwelling too long on one thing, 
he could not have rattled the dice of 
small talk more industriously. His 
words would fill pages ; his topics 
were, that Miss Gale was an extraor- 
dinary woman, but too masculine for 
his taste, and had made her own trou- 
bles setting up doctress, when her true 
line was governess — for boys. He 
was also glib and satirical upon that 
favorite butt, a friend. 

“Who but a soi-disant woman- 
hater would pick up a strange virago, 
and send his sister to her with twenty 
pounds ? I’ll tell you what it is, Miss 
Vizard—” 

Here Miss Vizard, who had sat 
dead silent under a flow of words, 
which is merely indicated above, laid 
her hand on his arm to stop the flux 
for a moment, and said, quietly, “Z>o 
you know her? tell me.” 

“ Know her ! How should I ?” 

“I thought you might have met 
her — abroad.” 

“Well, it is possible, of course, but 
very unlikely. If I did, I never spoke 
to her, or I should have remembered 
hfer. Don't you think so ?” 

“She seemed very positive; and I 
think she is an accurate person. She 
seemed quite surprised and mortified 
when you said ‘ No.’ ” 

“Well, you know, of course it is 
a mortifying thing when a lady claims 
a gentleman’s acquaintance, and the 
gentleman doesn’t admit it. But 
what could I do? I couldn’t tell a 
lie about it — could I ?” 

“Of course not.” 

“ I was off my guard, and rudish ; 
but you were not. What tact! what 
delicacy ! what high breeding and 
angelic benevolence ! And so clever, 
too !” 

“Oh, fie! yon listened!” 

“ You left the door ajar, and I could 


not bear to lose a word that dropped 
from those lips so near me. Yes, I 
listened, and got such a lesson as only 
a noble, gentle lady could give. I 
shall never forget your womanly art, 
and the way you contrived to make 
the benefaction sound nothing. ‘We 
are all of us at low water in turns, 
and for a time, especially me, Zoe 
Vizard; so here’s a trifling loan. ’ A 
loan ! you’ll never see a shilling of it 
again ! No matter. What do angels 
want of money?” 

“Oh, pray,” said Zoe, “you make 
me blush !” 

“ Then I wish there was more light 
to see it — yes, an angel. Do you 
think I can’t see you have done all 
this for a lady you do not really ap- 
prove ? Fancy — a she-doctor ! ” 

“My dear friend,” said Zoe, with 
a little juvenile pomposity, “one 
ought not to judge one’s intellectual 
superiors hastily, and this lady is 
ours ” — then, gliding back to herself, 
“and it is my nature to approve what 
those I love approve — when it is not 
downright wrong, you know.” 

“ Oh, of course it is not wrong; but 
is it wise ?” 

Zoe did not answer : the question 
puzzled her. 

“Come,” said he, “ I’ll be frank, 
and speak out in time. I don’t think 
you know your brother Harrington. 
He is very inflammable.” 

“Inflammable! What! Harring- 
ton? Well, yes ; for I’ve seen smoke 
issue from his mouth — ha! ha!” 

“Ha! ha! I’ll pass that off for 
mine, some day when you are not by. 
But, seriously, your brother is the 
very man to make a fool of himself 
with a certain kind of woman. He 
despises the whole sex — in theory, 
and he is very hard upon ordinary 
women, and does not appreciate their 
good qualities. But, when he meets 
a remarkable woman, he catches fire 
like tow. lie fell in love with Made- 
moiselle Klosking.” 

“ Oh, not in love !” 

“ I beg your pardon. Now, this is 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


117 


between yon and me — he was in love 
with her, madly in love. He was 
only saved by our coming away. If 
those two had met and made acquaint- 
ance, he would have been at her mer- 
cy. I don’t say any harm would have 
come of it ; but I do say that would 
have depended on the woman, and 
not on the man.” 

Zoe looked very serious, and said 
nothing. But her long silence show- 
ed him his words had told. 

“And now,” said he, after a judi- 
cious pause, “here is another remark- 
able woman ; the last in the world I 
should fancy, or Vizard either, per- 
haps, if he met her in society. But 
the whole thing occurs in the way to 
catch him. He finds a lady fainting 
with hunger; he feeds her; and that 
softens his heart to her. Then she 
tells him the old story — victim of the 
world’s injustice — and he is deeply in- 
terested in her. She can see that ; 
she is as keen as a razor. If those 
two meet a few more times, he will 
be at her mercy ; and then won’t she 
throw physic to the dogs, and jump 
at a husband six feet high, and twelve 
thousand acres ! I don’t study wom- 
en with a microscope, as our woman- 
hater does, but I notice a few things 
about them ; and one is, that their 
eccentricities all give way at the first 
offer of marriage. I believe they are 
only adopted in desperation, to get 
married. What beautiful woman is 
ever eccentric? catch her! she can 
get a husband without. That doc- 
tress will prescribe Harrington a wed- 
ding-ring ; and, if he swallows it, it 
will be her last prescription. She will 
send out for the family doctor after 
that, like other wives.” 

“You alarm me,” said Zoe. “Pray 
do not make me unjust. This is a 
lady with a fine mind, and not a de- 
signing woman.” 

“Oh, I don’t say she has laid any 
plans ; but these things are always 
extemporized the moment the chance 
comes. You can count beforehand 
on the instincts of every woman who 


is clever and needy, and on Vizard’s 
peculiar weakness for women out of 
the common. He is hard upon the 
whole sex ; but he is no match for 
individuals. He owned as much him- 
self to me one day. You are not an- 
gry with me!” 

“ No, no. Angry with you ?” 

“It is you I think of in all this. 
He is a fine fellow, and you are proud 
of him. I wouldn’t have him mar- 
ry to mortify you. For myself, while 
the sister honors me with her regard, 
I really don’t much care who has the 
brother and the acres. I have the 
best of the bargain.” 

Zoe disputed this — in order to make 
him say it several times. 

He did, and proved it in terms that 
made her cheeks red with modesty 
and gratified pride ; and by the time 
they had got home, he had flattered 
every thing but pride, love, and hap- 
piness out of her heart, poor girl. 

The world is like the Law, full of 
implied contracts : we give and take, 
without openly agreeing to. Subtle 
Severne counted on this, and was not 
disappointed. Zoe rewarded him for 
his praises, and her happiness, by fall- 
ing into his views about Rhoda Gale. 
Only she did it in her own lady -like 
way, and not plump. 

She came up to Harrington and 
kissed him, and said, “Thank you, 
dear, for sending me on a good er- 
rand. I found her in a very mean 
apartment, without fire or candle.” 

“ I thought as much,” said Vizard. 

“Did she take the money ?” 

“ Yes — as a loan.” 

“ Make any difficulties ?” 

“A little, dear.” 

Severne put in his word. “Now, 
if you want to know all the tact and 
delicacy with which it was done, you 
must come to me ; for Miss Vizard is 
not going to give you any idea of it.” 

“Be quiet, sir, or I shall be very 
angry. I lent her the money, dear, 
and her troubles are at an end ; for 
her mother will certainly join her be- 
fore she has spent your twenty pounds. 


118 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


Oh ! and she had not parted with her 
ring ; that is a comfort, is it not ?” 

“You are a good-hearted girl, Zoe,” 
said Vizard, approvingly; then, recov- 
ering himself, “But don't you be 
blinded by sentiment. She deserves 
a good hiding for not parting with her 
ring. Where is the sense of starving, 
with thirty pounds on your finger?” 

Zoe smiled, and said his words were 
harder than his deeds. 

“Because he doesn’t mean a word 
he says,” put in Fanny Dover, uneasy 
at the long cessation of her tongue, 
for all conversation with Don Cigar 
had proved impracticable. 

“Are you there still, my Lady Dis- 
dain ?” said Vizard. ‘ ‘ I thought you 
were gone to bed.” 

“ You might well think that. I had 
nothing to keep me up.” 

Said Zoe, rather smartly, “ Oh yes, 
you had — Curiosity;” then, turning 
to her brother, “In short, you make 
your mind quite easy. You have lent 
your money, or given it, to a worthy 
person, but a little wrong-headed. 
However” — with a telegraphic glance 
at Severne — “she is very accom- 
plished ; a linguist : she need never 
be in want; and she will soon have 
her mother to help her and advise 
her. Perhaps Mrs. Gale has an in- 
come; if not, Miss Gale, with her 
abilities, will easily find a place in 
some house of business, or else take 
to teaching. If I was them, I would 
set up a school.” 

Unanimity is rare in this world ; 
but Zoe’s good sense carried every 
vote. Her prompter, Severne, nod- 
ded approval. Fanny said, “ Why, 
of course;” and Vizard, who, it was 
feared, might prove refractory, assent- 
ed even more warmly than the others. 
“Yes,” said he, “ that will be the end 
of it. You relieve me of a weight. 
Really, when she told me that fable 
of learning maltreated, honorable am- 
bition punished, justice baffled by 
trickery, and virtue vilified, and did 
not cry like the rest of you, except 
at her father dying in New York the 


day she won her diploma at Montpe- 
lier, I forgave the poor girl her pet- 
ticoats ; indeed, I lost sight of them. 
She seemed to me a very brave little 
fellow, damnably ill used, and I said, 
‘ This is not to be borne. Here is a 
fight, and justice down under dirty 
feet. ’ What, ho ! ” (roaring at the top 
of his voice). 

Zoe and Fanny (screaming, and 
pinching Ned Severne right and left). 
“Ah! ah!” 

“ Vizard to the rescue!” 

“But, with the evening, cool re- 
flection came. A sister, youthful, but 
suddenly sagacious (with a gleam of 
suspicion), very suddenly has stilled 
the waves of romance, and the lips of 
beauty have uttered common sense. 
Shall they utter it in vain? Never! 
It may be years before they do it 
again. We must not slight rare phe- 
nomena. Zoe locuta est — Eccentrici- 
ty must be suppressed. Doctresses, 
warned by a little starvation, must 
take the world as it is, and teach little 
girls and boys languages, and physic 
them with arithmetic and the globes : 
these be drugs that do not kill ; they 
only make life a burden. I don’t 
think we have laid out our twenty 
pounds badly, Zoe, and there is art 
end of it. The incident is emptied, 
as the French say, and (lighting bed- 
candles) the ladies retire with the hon- 
ors of war. “Zoe has uttered good 
sense, and Miss Dover has done the 
next best thing ; she has said very lit- 
tle—” 

Miss Dover shot in contemptuously, 
“I had no companion — ” 

— “For want of a fool to speak her 
mind to.” 


CHAPTER XVI. 

Ingenious Mr. Severne having 
done his best to detach the poor doc- 
tress from Vizard and his family, in 
which the reader probably discerns 
his true motive, now bent his mind 
on slipping back to Homburg and 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


119 


looking after his money. Not that 1 
he liked the job. To get hold of it, 
he knew he must condense rascality ; 
he mast play the penitent, the lover, 
and the scoundrel over again, all in 
three days. 

Now, though his egotism was bru- 
tal, he was human in this, that he had 
plenty of good nature skin-deep, and 
superficial sensibilities, which made 
him shrink a little from this hot- 
pressed rascality and barbarity. On 
the other hand, he was urged by pov- 
erty, and, laughable as it may appear, 
by jealousy. He had observed that 
the best of women, if they are not 
only abandoned by him they love, but 
also flattered and adored by scores, 
will sometimes yield to the joint at- 
tacks of desolation, pique, vanity, etc. 

In this state of fluctuation he made 
up his mind so far as this : he would 
manage so as to be able to go. 

Even this demanded caution. So 
he began by throwing out, in a seem- 
ing careless way, that he ought to go 
down into Huntingdonshire. 

‘ ‘ Of course you ought, ” said Vizard. 

No objection was taken, and they 
rather thought he would go next day. 
But that was not his game. It would 
never do to go while they were in 
London. So he kept postponing, and 
saying he would not tear himself 
away; and at last, the day before 
they were to go down to Barford- 
shire, he affected to yield to a remon- 
strance of Vizard, and said he would 
see them off, and then run down to 
Huntingdonshire, look into his affairs, 
and cross the country to Barfordshire. 

“You might take Homburg on the 
way,” said Fanny, out of fun — her fun 
— not really meaning it. 

Severne cast a piteous look at Zoe. 

‘ ‘ For shame, Fanny ! ” said she. “And 
why put Homburg into his head ?” 

“When I had forgotten there was 
such a place,” said Mr. Severne, tak- 
ing his cue dexterously from Zoe, and 
feigning innocent amazement. Zoe 
colored with pleasure. This was at 
breakfast. At afternoon tea some- 


! thing happened. The ladies were up- 
stairs packing, an operation on which 
they can bestow as many hours as the 
thing needs minutes. One servant 
brought in the tea ; another came in 
soon after with a card, and said it was 
for Miss Vizard ; but he brought it 
to Harrington. lie read it : 

“Miss Rhoda Gale, M.D.” 

“Send it up to Miss Vizard,” said 
he. The man was going out : he 
stopped him, and said, “You can 
show the lady inhere, all the same.” 

Rhoda Gale was ushered in. She 
had a new gown and bonnet, not 
showy, but very nice. She colored 
faintly at sight of the two gentlemen ; 
but Vizard soon put her at her ease. 
He shook hands with her, and said, 
“Sit down, Miss Gale; my sister will 
soon be here. 1 have sent your card 
up to her.” 

“Shall I tell her?” said Severne, 
with the manner of one eager to be 
agreeable to the visitor. 

“If you please, sir,” said Miss 
Gale. 

Severne went out zealously, darted 
up to Zoe’s room, knocked, and said, 
“ Pray come down : here is that doc- 
tress.” 

Meantime, Jack was giving Gill the 
card, and Gill was giving it Mary to 
give to the lady. It got to Zoe’s 
room in a quarter of an hour. 

“Any news from mamma?” asked 
Vizard, in his blunt way. 

“Yes, sir.” 

“ Good news ?” 

“No. My mother writes me that 
I must not expect her. She has to 
fight with a dishonest executor. Oh, 
money, money !” 

At that moment Zoe entered the 
room, but Severne paced the landing. 
He did not care to face Miss Gale ; 
and even in that short interval of time 
he had persuaded Zoe to protect her 
brother against this formidable young 
lady, and shorten the interview if sha 
could. 


120 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


So Zoe entered the room bristling 
with defense of her brother. At sight 
of her, Miss Gale rose, and her feat- 
ures literally shone with pleasure. 
This was rather disarming to one so 
amiable as Zoe, and she was surprised 
into smiling sweetly in return ; but 
still her quick, defensive eye drank 
Miss Gale on the spot, and saw, with 
alarm, the improvement in her ap- 
pearance. She was very healthy, as 
indeed she deserved to be ; for she 
was singularly temperate, drank noth- 
ing but water and weak tea without 
sugar, and never eat nor drank except 
at honest meals. Her youth and 
pure constitution had shaken off all 
that pallor, and the pleasure of seeing 
Zoe lent her a lovely color. Zoe 
microscoped her in one moment : not 
one beautiful feature in her whole 
face ; eyes full of intellect, but not in 
the least love-darting ; nose, an aqui- 
line steadily reversed ; mouth, vastly 
expressive, but large ; teeth, even and 
white, but ivory, not pearl ; chin, 
ordinary j head symmetrical, and set 
on with grace. I may add, to com- 
plete the picture, that she had a way 
of turning this head, clean, swift, and 
bird -like, without turning her body. 
That familiar action of hers was fine 
— so full of fire and intelligence. 

Zoe settled in one moment that she 
was downright plain, but might prob- 
ably be that mysterious and incom- 
prehensible and dangerous creature, 
“a gentleman’s beauty,” which, to 
women, means no beauty at all, but a 
witch-like creature, that goes and hits 
foul, and eclipses real beauty — dolls, 
to wit — by some mysterious magic. 

“Pray sit down,” said Zoe, form- 
ally. Rhoda sat down, and hesitated 
a moment. She felt a frost. 

Vizard helped her, “ Miss Gale has 
heard from her mother.” 

“Yes, Miss Vizard,” said Rhoda, 
timidly; “and very bad news. She 
can not come at present ; and I am 
so distressed at what I have done in 
borrowing that money of you ; and 
see, I have spent nearly three pounds 


of it in dress; but I have brought 
the rest back. ” 

Zoe looked at her brother, perplex- 
ed. 

“ Stuff and nonsense !” said Vizard. 
“ You will not take it, Zoe.” 

“Oh yes; if you please, do,” said 
Rhoda still to Zoe. “When I bor- 
rowed it, I felt sure I could repay it ; 
but it is not so now. My mother 
says it may be months before she can 
come, and she forbids me positively 
to go to her. Oh ! but for that, I’d 
put on boy’s clothes, and go as a com- 
mon sailor to get to her.” 

Vizard fidgeted on his chair. 

“I suppose I mustn’t go in a pas- 
sion,” said he, dryly. 

“Who cares?” said Miss Gale, 
turning her head sharply on him in 
the way I have tried to describe. 

“I care,” said Vizard. “I find 
wrath interfere with my digestion. 
Please go on, and tell us what your 
mother says. She has more common 
sense than somebody else I won’t 
name — politeness forbids. ” 

“Well, who doubts that?” said the 
lady, with frank good humor. “Of 
course she has more sense than any 
of us. Well, my mother says — oh, 
Miss Vizard !” 

“No, she doesn’t now. She never 
heard the name of Vizard.” 

Miss Gale was in no humor for 
feeble jokes. She turned half angrily 
away from him to Zoe. “ She says I 
have been well educated, and know 
languages ; and we are both under a 
cloud, and I had better give up all 
thought of medicine, and take to 
teaching.” 

“Well, Miss Gale,” said Zoe, “if 
you ask me, I must say I think it is 
good advice. With all your gifts, 
how can you fight the world ? We 
are all interested in you here ; and it 
is a curious thing, but do you know 
we agreed the other day you would 
have to give up medicine, and fall 
into some occupation in which there 
are many ladies already to keep you 
in countenance. Teaching was men- 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


121 


tioned, I think ; was it not, Harring- 
ton ?” 

Rhoda Gale sighed deeply. 

“I am not surprised,” said she. 
“Most women of the world think 
with you. But oh, Miss Vizard, 
please take into account all that I 
have done and suffered for medicine ! 
Is all that to go for nothing ? Think 
what a bitter thing it must be to do, 
and then to undo ; to labor and study, 
and then knock it all down — to cut a 
slice out of one’s life, out of the very 
heart of it — and throw it clean away. 
I know it is hard for you to enter into 
the feelings of any one who loves 
science, and is told to desert it. But 
suppose you had loved a man you 
were proud of — loved him for five 
years — and then they came to you 
and said, ‘ There are difficulties in 
the way ; he is as worthy as ever, and 
he will never desert you; but you 
must give him up, and try and get a 
taste for human rubbish : it will only 
be five years of wasted life, wasted 
youth, wasted seed-time, wasted af- 
fection, and then a long vegetable life 
of unavailing regrets.’ I love science 
as other women love men. If I am 
to give up science, why not die? 
Then I shall not feel my loss ; and I 
know how to die without pain. Oh, 
the world is cruel ! Ah ! I am too 
unfortunate! Every body else is re- 
warded for patience, prudence, tem- 
perance, industry, and a life with high 
and almost holy aims ; but I am pun- 
ished, afflicted, crushed under the in- 
justice of the day. Do not make me 
a nurse-maid. I won't be a govern- 
ess ; and I must not die, because that 
would grieve my mother. Have pity 
on me ! have pity !” 

She trembled all over, and stretch- 
ed out her hands to Zoe with truly 
touching supplication. 

Zoe forgot her part, or lost the pow- 
er to play it well. She turned her 
head away, and would not assent ; but 
two large tears rolled out of her beau- 
tiful eyes. Miss Gale, who had risen 
in the ardor of her appeal, saw that, 
6 


and it set her off. She leaned her 
brow against the mantel -piece, not 
like a woman, but a brave boy, that 
does not want to be seen crying, and 
she faltered out, “In France I am a 
learned physician ; and here to be a 
house -maid! For I won’t live on 
borrowed money. I am very unfort- 
unate.” 

Severne, who had lost patience, 
came swiftly in, and found them in 
this position, and Vizard walking im- 
patiently about the room In a state of 
emotion which he was pleased to call 
anger. 

Zoe, in a tearful voice, said, “ I am 
unable to advise you. It is very hard 
that any one so deserving should be 
degraded.” 

Vizard burst out, “ It is harder the 
world should be so full of convention- 
al sneaks ; and that I was near mak- 
ing one of them. The last thing we 
ever think of, in this paltry world, is 
justice, and it ought to be the first. 
Well, for once I’ve got the power to 
be just, and just I’ll be, by God! 
Coine, leave off sniveling, you two, 
and take a lesson in justice — from a 
beginner: converts are always the 
hottest, you know. Miss Gale, you 
shall not be driven out of science, and 
your life and labor wasted. You shall 
doctor Barfordshire, and teach it En- 
glish, too, if any woman can. This 
is the programme. I farm two hun- 
dred acres — vicariously, of course. 
Nobody in England has brains to do 
any thing himself. That weakness 
is confined to your late father’s coun- 
try, and they suffer for it by outfight- 
ing, outlying, outmanoeuvring, out- 
bullying, and outwitting us whenever 
we encounter them. Well, the farm- 
house is large. The bailiff has no 
children. There is a wing furnished, 
and not occupied. You shall live 
there, with the right of cutting vege- 
tables, roasting chickens, sucking 
eggs, and riding a couple of horses 
off their legs.” 

“But what am I to do for all that?" 

“ Oh, only the work of two men. 


122 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


You must keep my house m perfect 
health. The servants have a trick 
of eating till they burst. You will 
have to sew them up again. There 
are only seven hundred people in the 
village. You must cure them all; and, 
if you do, I promise you their lasting 
ingratitude. Outside the village, you 
must make them pay — if you can. W e 
will find you patients of every degree. 
But whether you will ever get any 
fees out of them, this deponent sayeth 
not. However, I can answer for the 
ladies of our county, that they will 
all cheat you — if they can.” 

Miss Gale’s color came and went, 
and her eyes sparkled. “Oh, how- 
good you are ! Is there a hospital ?” 

“County hospital, and infirmary, 
within three miles. Fine country for 
disease. Intoxication prevalent, lead- 
ing to a bountiful return of accidents. 
I promise you wounds, bruises, and 
putrefying sores, and every thing to 
make you comfortable.” 

“ Oh, don’t laugh at me. I am so 
afraid 1 shall — no, I hope I shall not 
disgrace you. And, then, it is against 
the law; but I don’t mind that.” 

“ Of course not. What is the law 
to ladies with elevated views? By- 
the-bye, what is the penalty — six 
months ?” 

“Oh no. Twenty pounds. Oh, 
dear! another twenty pounds !” 

“Make your mind easy. Unjust 
laws are a dead letter on a soil so 
primitive as ours. I shall talk to 
Uxmoor and a few more, and no 
magistrate will ever summons you, 
nor jury convict you, in Barfordshire. 
You will be as safe there as in Upper 
Canada. Now then — attend. We 
leave for Barfordshire to - morrow. 
You will go down on the first of next 
month. By that time all will be 
ready: start for Taddington, eleven 
o'clock. You will be met at the Tad- 
dington Station, and taken to your 
farm-house. You will find a fire ten 
days old, and, for once in your life, 
young lady, you will find an aired 
bed ; because my man Harris will be 


house-maid, and not let one of your 
homicidal sex set foot in the crib.” 

Miss Gale looked from Vizard to 
his sister, like a person in a dream. 
She w-as glowing with happiness; but 
it did not spoil her. She said, hum- 
bly and timidly, “I hope I may prove 
worthy.” 

“That is your business,” said Viz- 
ard, with supreme indifference; “mine 
is to be just. Have a cup of tea?” 

“ Oh no, thank you ; and it will be 
a part of my duty to object to after- 
noon tea. But I am afraid none of 
you will mind me.” 

After a few more words, in which 
Severne, seeing Vizard was in one of 
his iron moods, and immovable as him 
of Rhodes, affected now to be a par- 
tisan of the new arrangement. Miss 
Gale rose to retire. Severne ran be- 
fore her to the door, and opened it, as 
to a queen. She bowed formally to 
him as she went out. When she was 
on the other side the door, she turned 
her head in her sharp, fiery way, and 
pointed with her finger to the emerald 
ring on his little finger, a very fine 
one. “Changed hands,” said she: 
“it w r as on the third finger of your 
left hand when we met last;” and 
she passed down the stairs with a 
face half turned to him, and a cruel 
smile. 

Severne stood fixed, looking after 
her ; cold crept among his bones : 
he was roused by a voice above him 
saying, very inquisitively, “What does 
she say ?” He looked up, and it was 
Fanny Dover leaning over the balus- 
ters of the next landing. She had 
evidently seen all, and heard some. 
Severne had no means of knowdng 
how much. His heart beat rapidly. 
Yet he told her, boldly, that the doc- 
tress had admired his emerald ring : 
as if to give greater force to this ex- 
planation, he took it off, and showed 
it her, very amicably. He calculated 
that she could hardly, at that dis- 
tance, have heard every syllable, and, 
at the same time, he was sure she had 
seen Miss Gale point at the ring. 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


123 


“Hum!” said Fanny; and that 
was all she said. 

Severne went to his own room to 
think. He was almost dizzy. He 
dreaded this Rhoda Gale. She was 
incomprehensible, and held a sword 
over his head. Tongues go fast in 
the country. At the idea of this keen 
girl and Zoe Vizard sitting under a 
tree for two hours, with nothing to 
do but talk, his blood ran cold. Sure- 
ly Miss Gale must hate him. She 
would not always spare him. For 
once he could not see his way clear. 
Should he tell her half the truth, and 
throw himself on her mercy ? Should 
he make love to her ? Or what should 
he do? One thing he saw clear enough : 
he must not quit the field. Sooner or 
later, all would depend on his pres- 
ence, his tact, and his ready wit. 

He felt like a man who could not 
swim, and wades in deepening water. 
He must send somebody to Homburg, 
or abandon all thought of his money. 
Why abandon it? Why not return 
to Ina Klosking? His judgment, 
alarmed at the accumulating difficul- 
ties, began to intrude its voice. What 
was he turning his back on ? A wom- 
an, lovely, loving, and celebrated, who 
was very likely pining for him, and 
would share, not only her winnings at 
play with him, but the large income 
she would make by her talent. What 
was he following? A woman divine- 
ly lovely and good, but whom he could 
not possess, or, if he did, could not 
hold her long, and whose love must 
end in horror. 

But nature is not so unfair to hon- 
est men as to give wisdom to the 
cunning. Rarely does reason pre- 
vail against passion in such a mind as 
Severne’s. It ended, as might have 
been expected, in his going down to 
Vizard Court with Zoe. 

An express train soon whirled 
them down to Taddington, in Bar- 
fordshire. There was Harris, with 
three servants, waiting for them, one 
with a light cart for their luggage, 
and two with an open carriage and 


two spanking bays, whose coats shone 
like satin. The servants, liveried, 
and top-booted, and buckskin-gloved, 
and spruce as if just out of a bandbox, 
were all smartness and respectful zeal. 
They got the luggage out in a trice, 
with Harris’s assistance. Mr. Harris 
then drove away like the wind in his 
dog -cart; the traveling party were 
soon in the barouche. It glided 
away, and they rolled on easy springs 
at the rate of twelve miles an hour till 
they came to the lodge-gate. It was 
opened at their approach, and they 
drove full half a mile over a broad 
gravel path, with rich grass on each 
side, and grand old patriarchs, oak 
and beech, standing here and there, 
and dappled deer, grazing or lying, in 
mottled groups, till they came to a 
noble avenue of lofty liine-trees, with 
stems of rare size and smoothness, 
and tow'ering piles on piles of trans- 
lucent leaves, that glowed in the sun 
like flakes of gold. 

At the end of this avenue was seen 
an old mansion, built of that beautiful 
clean red brick — which seems to have 
died out — and white stone-facings and 
mullions, with gables and oriel- win- 
dows by the dozen ; but between the 
avenue and the house was a very large 
oval plot of turf, with a broad gravel 
road running round it ; and attached 
to the house, but thrown a little back, 
were the stables, which formed three 
sides of a good-sized quadrangle, with 
an enormous clock in the centre. 
The lawn, kitchen-garden, ice-houses, 
pineries, greenhouses, revealed them- 
selves only in peeps as the carriage 
swept round the spacious plot, and 
drew up at the hall door. 

No ringing of bells nor knocking. 
Even as the coachman tightened his 
reins, the great hall door was swung 
open, and two footmen appeared. 
Harris brought up a rear-guard, and 
received the party in due state. 

A double staircase, about ten feet 
broad, rose out of the hall, and up 
this Mr. Harris conducted Severne, 
the only stranger, into a bedroom 


124 


A WOMAN-IIATER. 


with a great oriel - window looking 
west. 

“This is your room, sir,” said he. 
“Shall I unpack your things when 
they come?” 

Severne assented, and that perfect 
major - domo informed him that 
luncheon was ready, and retired cat- 
like, and closed the door so softly no 
sound was heard. 

Mr. Severne looked about him, and 
admitted to himself that, with all his 
experiences of life, this was his first 
bedroom. It was of great size, to be- 
gin. The oriel -window was twenty 
feet wide, and had half a dozen case- 
ments, each with rose-colored blinds, 
though some of them needed no 
blinds, for green creepers, with flow- 
ers like clusters of grapes, curled 
round the mullions, and the sun 
shone mellowed through their leaves. 
Enormous curtains of purple cloth, 
with gold borders, hung at each side 
in mighty folds, to be drawn at night- 
time when the eye should need repose 
from feasting upon color. 

There were three brass bedsteads 
in a row, only four feet broad, with 
spring -beds, hair mattresses a foot 
thick, and snowy sheets for coverlets, 
instead of counterpanes ; so that, if 
you were hot, feverish, or sleepless in 
one bed, you might try another, or 
two. 

Thick carpets and rugs, satin-wood 
wardrobes, prodigious wash - hand 
stands, with china backs four feet 
high. Towel-horses, nearly as big 
as a donkey, with short towels, long 
towels, thick towels, thin towels, bath- 
ing sheets, etc. ; baths of every shape, 
and cans of every size ; a large knee- 
hole table ; paper and envelopes of 
every size. In short, a room to sleep 
in, study in, live in, and stick fast in, 
night and day. 

But what is this? A Gothic arch, 
curtained with violet merino. He 
draws the curtain. It is an ante- 
room. One half of it is a bath-room, 
screened, and paved with encaustic 
tiles that run up the walls, so you may 


splash to your heart’s content. The 
rest is a studio, and contains a choice 
little library of well- bound books in 
glass cases, a piano- forte, and a har- 
monium. Severne tried them ; they 
were both in perfect tune. Two 
clocks, one in each room, were also 
in perfect time. Thereat he wonder- 
ed. But the truth is, it was a house 
wherein precision reigned : a tuner 
and a clock-maker visited by contract 
every month. 

This, and two more guest-cham- 
bers, and the great dining-hall were 
built under the Plantagenets, when all 
large land- owners entertained kings 
and princes with their retinues. As 
to that part of the house which was 
built under the Tudors, there are hun- 
dreds of country houses as important, 
only Mr. Severne had not been inside 
them, and was hardly aware to what 
perfection rational luxury is brought 
in the houses of our large landed gen- 
try. He sat down in an antique chair 
of enormous size ; the back went high- 
er than his head, the seat ran out as 
far as his ankle, when seated ; there 
was room in it for two, and it was 
stuffed — ye gods, how it was stuffed ! 
The sides, the back, and the seat were 
all hair mattresses, a foot thick at 
least. Here nestled our sybarite, 
with the sun shining through leaves* 
and splashing his beautiful head with 
golden tints and transparent shadows, 
and felt in the temple of comfort, and 
incapable of leaving it alive. 

He went down to luncheon. It 
was distinguishable from dinner in 
this, that they all got up after it, and 
Zoe said, “Come with me, children.” 

Fanny and Severne rose at the 
word. Vizard said he felt excluded 
from that invitation, having cut his 
wise-teeth ; so he would light a cigar 
instead ; and he did. Zoe took the 
other two into the kitchen -garden — 
four acres, surrounded with a high 
wall, of orange-red brick, full of little 
holes where the nails had been. Zoe, 
being now at home, and queen, wore 
a new and pretty deportment. She 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


125 


was half maternal, and led her friend 
and lover about like two kids. She 
took them to this and that fruit-tree, 
set them to eat, and looked on, supe- 
rior. By way of climax, she led them 
to the south wall, crimson with ten 
thousand peaches and nectarines ; she 
stepped over the border, took superb 
peaches and nectarines from the trees, 
and gave them with her own hand to 
Fanny and Severne. The head-gar- 
dener glared in dismay at the fair 
spoliator. Zoe observed him, and 
laughed. “Poor Lucas,” said she; 
“he would like them all to hang on 
the tree till they fell off with a wasp 
inside. Eat as many as ever you can, 
young people ; Lucas is amusing.” 

“I never had peaches enough off 
the tree before,” said Fanny. 

“No more have I,” said Severne. 
“This must be the Elysian fields, and 
I shall spoil my dinner.” 

“ Who cares ?” said Fanny, reck- 
lessly. “Dinner comes every day, 
and always at the only time when one 
has no appetite. But this eating of 
peaches — Oh, what a beauty!” 

“Children,” said Zoe, gravely, “I 
advise you not to eat above a dozen. 
Do not enter on a fatal course, which 
in one brief year will reduce you to a 
hapless condition. There — I was let 
loose among them at sixteen, and ever 
since they pall. But I do like to see 
you eat them, and your eyes sparkle.” 

“ That is too bad of you,” said Fan- 
ny, driving her white teeth deep into 
a peach. “The idea! Now, Mr. 
Severne, do my eyes sparkle ?” 

“Like diamonds. But that proves 
nothing : it is their normal condi- 
tion.” 

“ There, make him a courtesy,” 
said Zoe, “ and come along.” 

Site took them into the village. It 
was one of the old sort; little detach- 
ed houses with little gardens in front, 
in all of which were a few humble 
flowers, and often a dark rose of sur- 
passing beauty. Behind each cottage 
was a large garden, with various veg- 
etables, and sometimes a few square I 


yards of wheat. There was one little 
row of new brick houses standing to- 
gether ; their number five, their name 
Newtown. This town of five houses 
was tiled ; the detached houses were 
thatched, and the walls plastered and 
whitewashed like snow. Such white- 
wash seems never to be made in towns, 
or to lose its whiteness in a day. This 
broad surface of vivid white was a 
background, against which the cling- 
ing roses, the clustering, creeping 
honeysuckles, and the deep young 
ivy with its tender green and polish- 
ed leaves, shone lovely ; wood smoke 
mounted, thin and silvery, from a cot- 
tage or two, that were cooking, and 
embroidered the air, not fouled it. 
The little windows had diamond 
panes, as in the Middle Ages, and 
every cottage-door was open, suggest- 
ing hospitality and dearth of thieves. 
There was also that old essential, a 
village green — a broad strip of sacred 
turf, that was every body’s by custom, 
though in strict law Vizard’s. Here 
a village cow and a donkey went 
about grazing the edges, for the turf 
in general was smooth as a lawn. By 
the side of the green was the village 
ale-house. After the green other cot- 
tages ; two of them 

“Quite overcanopied with lush wood- 
bine, 

With sweet musk-roses and with eglan- 
tine.” 

One of these was called Marks’s cot- 
tage, and the other Allen’s. The rus- 
tic church stood in the middle of a 
hill nearly half a mile from the vil- 
lage. They strolled up to it. It had 
a tower built of flint, and clad on two 
sides with ivy three feet deep, and the 
body of the church was as snowy as 
the cottages, and on the south side 
a dozen swallows and martins had 
lodged their mortar nests under the 
eaves : they looked, against the white, 
like rugged gray stone bosses. Swal- 
lows and martins innumerable wheel- 
ed, swift as arrows, round the tower, 
chirping, and in and out of the church 
through an open window, and added 


126 


A WOMAN-HATER, 


their music and their motion to the 
beauty of the place. 

Returning from the church to the 
village, Miss Dover lagged behind, 
and then Severne infused into his 
voice those tender tones, which give 
amorous significance to the poorest 
prose. 

“What an Arcadia!” said he. 

“ You would not like to be banish- 
ed to it,” said Zoe, demurely. 

“That depends,” said he, signifi- 
cantly. 

Instead of meeting him half - way 
and demanding an explanation, Zoe 
turned coy, and fell to wondering what 
Fanny was about. 

“Oh, don’t compel her to join us,” 
said Severne. “She is meditating.” 

“On what? She is not much 
given that way.” 

“On her past sins; and preparing 
new ones.” 

“For shame! She is no worse 
than we are. Do you really admire 
Islip ?” 

“Indeed I do, if this is Islip ?” 

“ It is, then ; and this cottage with 
the cluster-rose tree all over the walls 
is Marks’s cottage. We are rather 
proud of Marks’s cottage,” said she, 
timidly. 

“ It is a bower,” said he, warmly. 

This encouraged Zoe, and she said, 
“ Is there not a wonderful charm in 
cottages? I often think I should like 
to live in Marks’s. Have you ever 
had that feeling ?” 

“ Never. But I have it now. I 
should like to live in it — with you.” 

Zoe bliished like a rose, but turned 
it off. “You would soon wish your- 
self back again at Vizard Court,” said 
she. “Fanny — Fanny!” and she 
stood still. 

Fanny came up. “Well, what is 
the matter now ?” said she, with pert, 
yet thoroughly apathetic, indifference. 

“The matter is — extravagancies. 
Here is a man of the world pretend- 
ing he would like to end his days in 
Marks’s cottage.” 

“Stop a bit. It was to be with 


somebody I loved. And wouldn’t 
you, Miss Dover?” 

“ Oh dear, no. We should be sure 
to quarrel, cooped up in such a mite 
of a place. No ; give me Vizard 
Court, and plenty of money, and the 
man of my heart.” 

“You have not got one, I’m afraid,” 
said Zoe, “or you would not put him 
last.” 

“Why not? when he is of the last 
importance,” said Fanny, flippantly, 
and turned the laugh her way. 

They strolled through the village 
together, but in the grounds of Viz- 
ard Court Fanny fairly gave them the 
slip. Severne saw his chance, and 
said, tenderly, 

“Did you hear what she said about 
a large house being best for lovers?” 

“Yes, I heard her,” said Zoe, de- 
fensively; “but very likely she did 
not mean it. That young lady’s 
words are air. She will say one thing 
one dav and another the next.” 

“I don’t know. There is one 
thing every young lady’s mind is 
made up about, and that is, whether 
it is to be love or money.” 

“She was for both, if I remember,” 
said Zoe, still coldly. 

“ Because she is not in love.” 

“Well, I really believe she is not 
— for once.” 

“There, you see. She is in an un- 
natural condition.” 

“For her, very.” 

“ So she is no judge. No; I should 
prefer Marks’s cottage. The smaller, 
the better ; because then the woman 
I love could not ever be far from me.” 

He lowered his voice, and drove the 
insidious words into her tender bosom. 
She began to tremble and heave, and 
defend herself feebly. 

“What have I to do with that? 
You mustn’t.” 

“How can I help it? You know 
the woman I love — I adore — and 
would not the smallest cottage in En- 
gland be a palace if I was blessed 
with her sweet love and her divine 
company? Oh, Zoe, Zoe!” 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


127 


Then she did defend herself, after 
a fashion: “I won’t listen to such — 
Edward !” Having uttered his name 
with divine tenderness, she put her 
hands to her blushing face, and fled 
from him. At the head of the stairs 
she encountered Fanny, looking satir- 
ical. She reprimanded her. 

“Fanny,” said she, “you really 
must not do that ” — [pause] — “out 
of our own grounds. Kiss me, dar- 
ling. I am a happy girl.” And she 
curled round Fanny, and panted on 
her shoulder. 

Miss Artful, known unto men as 
Fanny Dover, had already traced out 
in her own mind a line of conduct, 
which the above reprimand, minus 
the above kisses, taken at their joint 
algebraical value, did not disturb. 
The fact is, Fanny hated home; and 
liked Vizard Court above all places. 
But she was due at home, and hang- 
ing on to the palace of comfort by a 
thread. Any day her mother, out of 
natural affection and good-breeding, 
might write for her ; and unless one 
of her hosts interfered, she should 
have to go. But Harrington went 
for nothing in this, unfortunately. 
His hospitality was unobtrusive, but 
infinite. It came to him from the 
Flantagenets through a long line of 
gentlemen who shone in vices ; but in- 
hospitality was unknown to the whole 
chain, and every human link in it. 
He might very likely forget to invite 
Fanny Dover unless reminded; hut, 
when she was there, she was welcome 
to stay forever if she chose. It was 
all one to him. He never bothered 
himself to amuse his guests, and so 
they never bored him. He never let 
them. He made them at home ; put 
his people and his horses at their serv- 
ice ; and preserved his even tenor. 
So. then, the question of Fanny’s stay 
lay with Zoe ; and Zoe would do one 
of two things: she would either say, 
with well-bred hypocrisy, she ought 
not to keep Fanny any longer from 
her mother — and so get rid of her; 


or would interpose, and give some 
reason or other. What that reason 
would be, Fanny had no precise idea. 
She u r as sure it would not be the true 
one; but there her insight into futuri- 
ty and females ceased. Now, Zoe was 
thoroughly fascinated by Severne, and 
Fanny saw it ; and yet Zoe was too 
high-bred a girl to parade the village 
and the neighborhood with him alone 
— and so placard her attachment — 
before they were engaged, and the en- 
gagement sanctioned bv the head of 
the house. This consideration ena- 
bled Miss Artful to make herself 
necessary to Zoe. Accordingly, she 
showed, on the very first afternoon, 
that she was prepared to play the con- 
venient friend, and help Zoe to com- 
bine courtship with propriety. 

This plan once conceived, she ad- 
hered to it with pertinacity and skill. 
She rode and walked with them, and 
in public put herself rather forward, 
and asserted the leader; but sooner 
or later, at a proper time and place, 
she lagged behind, or cantered ahead, 
and manipulated the wooing with tact 
and dexterity. 

The consequence was that Zoe 
wrote of her own accord to Mrs. 
Dover, asking leave to detain Fanny, 
because her brother had invited a col- 
lege friend, and it was rather awk- 
ward for her without Fanny, there 
being no other lady in the house at 
present. 

She showed this to Fanny, who said, 
earnestly, 

“As long as ever you like, dear. 
Mamma will not miss me a bit. 
Make your mind easy.” 

Vizard, knowing his sister, and en- 
tirely deceived in Severne, exercised 
no vigilance ; for, to do Zoe justice, 
none was necessary, if Severne had 
been the man he seemed. 

There was no mother in the house 
to tremble for her daughter, to be 
jealous, to watch, to question, to de- 
mand a clear explanation — in short, 
to guard her young as only the moth* 
ers of creation do. 


128 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


The Elysian days rolled on. Zoe 
was in heaven, and Severne in a fool’s 
paradise, enjoying every thing, hoping 
every thing, forgetting every thing, 
and fearing nothing. He had come 
to this, with all his cunning ; he was 
intoxicated and blinded with passion. 

Now it was that the idea of mar- 
rying Zoe first entered his head. 
But he was not mad enough for that. 
He repelled it with terror, rage, and 
despair. He passed an hour or two 
of agony in his own room, and came 
down, looking pale and exhausted. 
But, indeed, the little Dumas, though 
he does not pass for a moralist, says tru- 
ly and well, “Les amours illegitimes 
portent toujours des fruits amers ;” and 
Ned Severne’s turn was come to suffer 
a few of the pangs he had inflicted 
gayly on more than one woman and 
her lover. 

One morning at breakfast Vizard 
made two announcements. “Here’s 
news,” said he; “Dr. Gale writes to 
postpone her visit. She is ill, poor 
girl!” 

“Oh, dear! what is the matter?” 
inquired Zoe, always kind-hearted. 

“ Gastritis^-so she says.” 

“What is that?” inquired Fanny. 

Mr. Severne, who was much pleased 
at this opportune illness, could not 
restrain his humor, and said it was 
a disorder produced by the fumes of 
gas. 

Zoe, accustomed to believe this 
gentleman’s lies, and not giving her- 
self time to think, said there was a 
great escape in the passage the night 
she went there. 

Then there was a laugh at her sim- 
plicity. She joined in it, but shook 
her finger at Master Severne. 

Vizard then informed Zoe that Lord 
Uxmoor had been staying some time 
at Basildon Hall, about nine miles off ; 
so he had asked him to come over for 
a week, and he had accepted. “He 
will be here to dinner,” said Vizard. 
He then rang the bell, and sent for 
Harris, and ordered him to prepare 


the blue chamber for Lord Uxmoor, 
and see the things aired Aimself. 
Harris having retired, cat-fike, Viz- 
ard explained, “ My womankind shall 
not kill Uxmoor. He is ft good fel- 
low, and his mania — we have all got 
a mania, my young friends — is a re- 
spectable one. He wants to improve 
the condition of the poor — against 
their will.” 

“ His friend ! that was so ill. I 
hope he has not lost him,” said Zoe. 

“He hasn’t lost him in this letter. 
Miss Gush,” said Vizard. “ But you 
can ask him when he comes.” 

“Of course I shall ask him,” said 
Zoe. 

Half an hour before dinner there 
was a grating of wheels on the gravel. 
Severne looked out of his bedroom 
window, and saw Uxmoor drive up. 
Dark -blue coach; silver harness, 
glittering in the sun ; four chestnuts, 
glossy as velvet ; two neat grooms as 
quick as lightning. He was down in 
a moment, and his traps in the hall, 
and the grooms drove the trap round 
to the stables. 

They were all in the drawing-room 
when Lord Uxmoor appeared ; greet- 
ed Zoe with respectful warmth, Viz- 
ard with easy friendship, Severne and 
Miss Dover with well-bred civility. 
He took Zoe out, and sat at her right 
hand at dinner. 

As the new guest, he had the first 
claim on her attention, and they had 
a topic ready — his sick friend. He 
told her all about him, and his happy 
recovery, with simple warmth. Zoe 
was interested and sympathetic; 
Fanny listened, and gave Severne 
short answers. Severne felt de- 
throned. 

He was rather mortified, and a lit- 
tle uneasy, but too brave to show it. 
He bided his time. In the drawing- 
room Lord Uxmoor singled out Zoe, 
and courted her openly with respect- 
ful admiration. Severne drew Fanny 
apart, and exerted himself to amuse 
her. Zoe began to cast uneasy 
glances. Severne made common 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


129 


pause with Fanny. “ We have no 
chance against a iord, or a lady, you 
and I, Miss Dover.” 

“I haven’t,” said she; “but you 
need not complain. She wishes she 
were here.” 

“So do I. Will you help me ?” 

“No, I shall not. You can make 
love to me. 1 am tired of never be- 
ing mnde love to.” 

“ Well,” said this ingenuous youth, 
“you certainly do not get your de- 
serts in this house. Even I am so 
blinded by my passion for Zoe, that 
I forget she does not monopolize all 
the beauty and grace and wit in the 
house.” 

“Go on,” said Fanny. “I can 
bear a good deal of it — after such a 
fast.” 

“I have no doubt yon can bear 
a good deal. You are one of those 
that inspire feelings, but don’t share 
them. Give me a chance ; let me 
sing you a song.” 

“A love-song ?” 

“ Of course.” 

“ Can you sing it as well as you 
can talk it?” 

“ With a little encouragement. If 
you would kindly stand at the end 
of the piano, and let me see your beau- 
tiful eves fixed on me.” 

“ With disdain ?” 

“No, no.” 

“ With just suspicion ?” 

“No; with unmerited pity.” And 
he began to open the piano. 

“What! do you accompany your- 
self?” 

“Yes, after a fashion; by that 
means I don’t get run over.” 

Then this accomplished person fix- 
ed his eyes on Fanny Dover, and sung 
her an Italian love-song in the artifi- 
cial, passionate style of that nation ; 
And the English girl received it point- 
blank with complacent composure. 
But Zoe started and thrilled at the 
first note, and crept up to the piano 
as if drawn by an irresistible cord. 
She gazed on the singer with amaze- 
ment and admiration. His voice was 
G* 


a low tenor, round, and sweet as hon- 
ey. It was a real voice, a musical in- 
strument. 

“More tunable than lark to shepherd’s 
ear 

When wheat is green, when hawthorn 
buds appear.” 

And the Klosking had cured him of 
the fatal whine which stains the 
amateur, male or female, and had 
taught him climax, so that he artic- 
ulated and sung with perfect purity, 
and rang out his final notes instead 
of slurring them. In short, in plain 
passages he was a reflection, on a 
small scale, of that great singer. He 
knew this himself, and had kept clear 
of song : it was so full of reminiscence 
and stings. But now jealousy drove 
him to it. 

It was Vizard’s rule to leave the 
room whenever Zoe or Fanny opened 
the piano. So in the evening that 
instrument of torture was always 
mute. 

But hearing a male voice, the squire, 
who doted on good music, as he ab- 
horred bad, strolled in upon the 
chance ; and he stared at the singer. 

When the song ended, there was 
a little clamor of ladies’ voices calling 
him to account for concealing his tal- 
ent from them. 

“ I was afraid of Vizard,” said he ; 
“he hates bad music.” 

“None of your tricks,” said the 
squire; “yours is not bad music; 
you speak your words articulately, 
and even eloquently. Your accom- 
paniment is a little queer, especially 
in the bass; but you find out your 
mistakes, and slip out of them Heav- 
en knows how. Zoe, you are tame, 
but accurate. Correct his accompa- 
niments some day — when I'm out of 
hearing. Practice drives me mad. 
Give us another.” 

Severne laughed good-humoredly. 
“Thus encouraged, who could resist?” 
said he. “It is so delightful to sing 
in a shower-bath of criticism.” 

He sung a sprightly French song, 
with prodigious spirit and dash. 


130 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


They all applauded, and Vizard 
said, “ I see how it is. We were not 
good enough. He would not come 
out for us. He wanted the public. 
Uxmoor, you are the public. It is 
to you we owe this pretty warbler. 
Have you any favorite song, Public ? 
Say the word, and he shall sing it 
you.” 

Severne turned rather red at that, 
and was about to rise slowly, when 
Uxmoor, who was instinctively a gen- 
tleman, though not a courtier, said, 
“ I don’t presume to choose Mr. Sev- 
erne’s songs ; but if we are not tiring 
him, I own I should like to hear an 
English song ; for I am no musician, 
and the words are every thing with 
me.” 

Severne assented dryly, and made 
him a shrewd return for his courtesy. 

Zoe had a brave rose in her black 
hair. He gave her one rapid glance 
of significance, and sung a Scotch 
song, almost as finely as it could be 
sung in a room : 

“My love is like the red, red rose, 
That’s newly sprung in June ; 

My love is like a melody 
That’s sweetly played in tune.” 

The dog did not slur the short notes 
and howl upon the long ones, as did 
a little fat Jew from London, with 
a sweet voice and no brains, whom 
I last heard howl it in the Theatre 
Royal, Edinburgh. No; he retained 
the pure rhythm of the composition, 
and, above all, sung it with the gen- 
tle earnestness and unquavering emo- 
tion of a Briton. 

It struck Zoe’s heart point-blank. 
She drew back, blushing like the rose 
in her hair and in the song, and hid- 
ing her happiness from all but the 
keen Fanny. Every body but -Zoe 
applauded the song. She spoke only 
with her cheeks and eyes. 

Severne rose from the piano. He 
was asked to sing another, but de- 
clined laughingly. Indeed, soon aft- 
erward he glided out of the room, and 
was seen no more that night. 

Consequently he became the topic 


of conversation ; and the three, who 
thought they knew him, vied in his 
praises. 

In the morning an expedition was 
planned, and Lord Uxmoor proffered 
his “ four-in-hand.” It was accept- 
ed. All young ladies like to sit be- 
hind four spanking trotters ; and few 
object to be driven by a viscount with 
a glorious beard and large estates. 

Zoe sat by Uxmoor. Severne sat 
behind them with Fanny, a spectator 
of his open admiration. He could 
not defend himself so well as last 
night, and he felt humiliated by the 
position. 

It was renewed day after day. Zoe 
often cast a glance back, and drew 
him into the conversation ; yet, on 
the whole, Uxmoor thrust him aside 
by his advantages and his resolute 
wooing. 

The same thing at dinner. It was 
only at night he could be number one. 
He tuned Zoe’s guitar ; and, one 
night, when there was a party, he 
walked about the room with this, and, 
putting his left leg out, serenaded one 
lady after another. Barfordshire was 
amazed and delighted at him, but 
Uxmoor courted Zoe as if he did not 
exist. He began to feel that he was 
the man to amuse women in Barford- 
shire, but Uxmoor the man to marry 
them. He began to sulk. Zoe’s 
quick eye saw and pitied. She was 
puzzled what to do. Lord Uxmoor 
gave her no excuse for throwing cold 
water on him, because his adoration 
was implied, not expressed ; and he 
followed her up so closely, she could 
hardly get a word with Severne. 
When she did, there was consolation 
in every tone ; and she took care to 
let drop that Lord Uxmoor was go- 
ing in a day or two. So he was, but 
he altered his mind, and asked leave 
to stay. 

Severne looked gloomy at this, and 
he became dejected. He was miser- 
able, and showed it, to see what Zoe 
would do. What she did was to get 
rather bored by Uxmoor, and glance 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


131 


from Fanny to Severne. 1 believe 
Zoe only meant, “ Do pray say things 
to comfort him;” but Fanny read 
these gentle glances a la Dover, She 
got hold of Severne one day, and said, 

“ What is the matter with you ?” 

“Of course you can’t divine,” said 
he, sarcastically. 

“ Oh yes, 1 can ; and it is your 
own fault.” 

“ My fault! That is a good joke. 
Did I invite this man with all his ad- 
vantages? That was Vizard’s doing, 
who calls himself my friend.” 

“If it was not this one, it would 
be some other. Can you hope to 
keep Zoe Vizard from being courted ? 
Why, she is the beauty of the county ! 
and her brother not married. It is 
no use your making love by halves to 
her. She will go to some man who is 
in earnest.” 

“And am I not in earnest?” 

“Not so much as he is. You have 
known her four months, and never 
once asked her to marry you.” 

“So I am to be punished for my 
self-denial.” 

“Self-denial! Nonsense. Men 
have no self-denial. It is your cow- 
ardice.” 

“Don’t be cruel. You know it is 
my poverty.” 

“Your poverty of spirit. You 
gave up money for her, and that is 
as good as if you had it still, and bet- 
ter. If you love Zoe, scrape up an 
income somehow, and say the word. 
Why, Harrington is bewitched with 
you, and he is rolling in money. I 
wouldn’t lose her by cowardice, if I 
were you. Uxmoor will offer mar- 
riage "before he goes. He is staying 
on for that. Now, take my word for 
it, when one man offers marriage, and 
the other does not, there is always a 
good chance of the girl saying this 
one is in earnest, and the other is not. 
We don’t expect self-denial in a man ; 
we don’t believe in it. We see you 
seizing upon every thing else you 
care for; and, if you don’t seize on 
us, it wounds our vanity, the strong- 


est passion we have. Consider, Ux- 
moor has title, wealth, every thing to 
bestow with the wedding-ring. If he 
otters all that, and you don’t offer all 
you have, how much more generous 
he looks to her than you do l” 

“ In short, you think she will doubt 
my affection, if I don’t ask her to 
share my poverty.” 

“If you don’t, and a rich man asks 
her to share his all, I’m sure she will. 
And so should I. Words are only 
words.” 

“You torture me. I’d rather die 
than lose her.” 

“ Then live and win her, I’ve 
told you the way.” 

“ 1 will scrape an income together, 
and ask her.” 

“ Upon your honor?” 

“ Upon my soul,” 

“Then, in my opinion, you will 
have her in spite of Lord Uxmoor.” 

Hot from this, Edward Severne sat 
down and wrote a moving letter to a 
certain cousin of his in Huntingdon- 
shire. 

“My dear Cousin, — I have often 
heard you say you were under obli- 
gations to my father, and had a re- 
gard for me. Indeed, you have shown 
the latter by letting the interest on 
my mortgage run out many years and 
not foreclosing. Having no other 
friend, I now write to you, and throw 
myself on your pity. I have formed 
a deep attachment to a young lady 
of infinite- beauty and virtue. She is 
above me in every thing, especially in 
fortune. Yet she deigns to love me. 

I can’t ask her hand as a pauper ; and 
.by my own folly, now deeply repent- 
ed, I am little more. Now, all de- 
pends on you — my happiness, mv re- 
spectability. Sooner or later, I shall 
be able to repay you all. For God’s 
sake, come to the assistance of your 
affectionate cousin, 

“Edward Severne.” 

“The brother, a man of immense 
estates, is an old friend, and warmly 
attached to me. If I could only, 


132 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


through your temporary assistance 
or connivance, present my estate as 
clear, all would be well, and I could 
repay you afterward.” 

To this letter he received an im- 
mediate reply : 

“Dear Edward, — I thought you 
had forgotten my very existence. 
Yes, I owe much to your father, and 
have always said so, and acted ac- 
cordingly. While you have been 
wandering abroad, deserting us all, 
1 have improved your estate. I have 
bought all the other mortgages, and 
of late the rent has paid the interest, 
within a few pounds. 1 now make 
you an offer. Give me a long lease 
of the two farms at three hundred 
pounds a year — they will soon be va- 
cant — and two thousand pounds out 
of hand, and I will cancel all the 
mortgages, and give you a receipt for 
them as paid in full. This will be 
like paying you several thousand 
pounds for a beneficial lease. The 
two thousand pounds I must insist 
on, in justice to my own family. 
Your affectionate cousin, 

“George Severne.” 

This munificent offer surprised and 
delighted Severne; and, indeed, no 
other man but Cousin George, who 
had a heart of gold, and was grateful 
to Ned’s father, and also loved the 
scamp himself, as every body did, 
would have made such an offer. 

Our adventurer wrote, and closed 
with it, and gushed gratitude. Then 
he asked himself how to get the mon- 
ey. Had he been married to Zoe, or 
not thinking of her, he would have 
gone at once to Vizard, for the secu- 
rity was ample. But in his present 
delicate situation this would not do. 
No ; he must be able to come and 
say, “ My estate is small, but it is 
clear. Here is a receipt for six thou- 
sand pounds’ worth of mortgages I 
have paid off. I am poor in land, 
but rich in experience, regrets, and 


love. Be my friend, and trust me 
with Zoe.” 

He turned and twisted it in his 
mind, and resolved on a bold course. 
He would go to Homburg, and get 
that sum by hook or by crook out of 
Ina Klosking’s winnings. He took 
Fanny into his confidence; only he 
substituted London for Homburg. 

“And oh, Miss Dover,” said he, 
“ do not let me suffer by going away 
and leaving a rival behind.” 

“Suffer by it!” said she. “No. 
I mean to reward you for taking my 
advice. Don’t you say a word to her. 
It will come better from me. I’ll let 
her know what you are gone for ; and 
she is just the girl to be upon honor, 
and ever so much cooler to Lord Ux- 
moor because you are unhappy, but 
have gone away trusting her.” 

And his artful ally kept her word. 
She went into Zoe’s room before din- 
ner to have it out with her. 

In the evening Severne told Vizard 
he must go up to London for a day 
or two. 

“All right,” said Vizard. “Tell 
some of them to order the dog-cart 
for your train.” 

But Zoe took occasion to ask him 
for how long, and murmured, “ Re- 
member how we shall miss you,” 
with such a look that he was in Elys- 
ium that evening. 

But at night he packed his bag for 
Homburg, and that chilled him. He 
lay slumbering all night, but not sleep- 
ing, and waking with starts and a 
sense of horror. 

At breakfast, after reading his let- 
ters, Vizard asked him what train he 
would go by. 

He said, the one o’clock. 

“All right,” said Vizard. Then 
he rang the bell, countermanded the 
dog-cart, and ordered the barouche. 

“A barouche for me!” said Sev- 
erne. “Why, I am not going to 
take the ladies to the station. ” 

“No; it is to bring one here. She 
comes down from London five min- 
utes before you take the up train.” 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


133 


There was a general exclamation : 
Who was it? Aunt Maitland ? 

“No,” said Vizard, tossing a note 
to Zoe — “it is Doetress Gale.” 

Severne’s countenance fell. 


CHAPTER XVII. 

Edward Severne, master of arts, 
dreaded Rhoda Gale, M.D. He had 
deluded, in various degrees, several la- 
dies that were no fools ; but here was 
one who staggered and puzzled him. 
Bright and keen as steel, quick and 
spirited, yet controlled by judgment 
and always mistress of herself, she 
seemed to him a new species. The 
worst of it was, he felt himself in the 
power of this new woman, and, in- 
deed, he saw no limit to the mischief 
she might possibly do him if she and 
Zoe compared notes. He had thought 
the matter over, and realized this 
more than he did when in London. 
Hence the good youth’s delight at her 
illness, noticed in a former chapter. 

He was very thoughtful all break- 
fast-time, and as soon as it was over 
drew Vizard apart, and said he would 
postpone his visit to London until he 
had communicated with his man of 
business. He would go to the station 
and telegraph him, and by that means 
would do the civil and meet Miss Gale. 
Vizard stared at him. 

“You meet my virago? Why, I 
thought you disapproved her entirely.” 

“No, no ; only the idea of a female 
doctor, not the ladv herself. Besides, 
it is a rule with me, my dear fellow, 
never to let myself disapprove my 
friends’ friends.” 

“ That is a bright idea, and you are 
a good fellow,” said Vizard. “Go 
and meet the pest, by all means, and 
bring her here to luncheon. After 
luncheon we will drive her up to the 
farm and ensconce her.” 

Edward Severne had this advantage 


over most impostors, that he was mas- 
culine or feminine as occasion required. 
For instance, he could be hysterical 
or bold to serve the turn. Another 
example — he watched faces like a 
woman, and yet he could look you in 
the face like a man, especially when 
he was lying. In the present conjunct- 
ure a crafty woman would have bris- 
tled with all the arts of self-defense, 
but staid at home and kept close to 
Zoe. Not so our master of arts ; he 
went manfully to meet Rhoda Gale, 
and so secure a tete-a-tete, and learn, 
if possible, what she meant to do, and 
whether she could be cannily propiti- 
ated. He reached the station before 
her, and wired a very intelligent per- 
son who, he knew', conducted delicate 
inquiries, and had been very success- 
ful in a divorce case, public two years 
before. Even as he dispatched this 
message there w'as a whistling and a 
ringing, and the sound of a coming 
train, and Ned Severne ran to meet 
Rhoda Gale with a heart palpitating 
a little, and a face beaming greatly to 
order. He looked for her in the first- 
class carriages, but she was in the sec- 
ond, and saw him. He did not sets 
her till she stepped out on the plat- 
form. Then he made toward her. 
He took off his hat, and said, with re- 
spectful zeal, “If you will tell me w'hat 
luggage you have, the groom shall get 
it out.” 

Miss Gale’s eyes wandered over him 
loftily. “I have only a box and a 
bag, sir, both marked ‘R. G.’” 

“ Joe,” said he — for he had already 
made friends with all the servants, 
and won their hearts — “box and bag 
marked ‘R. G.’ Miss Gale, you had 
better take your seat in the carriage.” 

Miss Gale gave a little supercilious 
nod, and he show-ed her obsequiously 
into the carriage. She laid her head 
back, and contemplated vacancy ahead 
in a manner any thing but encour- 
aging to this new admirer Fate had 
sent her. He turned away, a little 
discomfited, and when the luggage was 
brought up, he had the bag placed in- 


134 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


side, and the box in a sort of boot, 
and then jumped in and seated him- 
self inside. “ Home,” said he to the 
coachman, and otf they went. When 
he came in, she started with well- 
feigned surprise, and stared at him. 

“Oh,” said she, “I have met you 
before. Why, it is Mr. Severne. Ex- 
cuse me taking you for one of the 
servants. Some people have short 
memories, you know.” 

This deliberate affront was duly 
felt, but parried with a master-hand. 

“ Why, I am one of the servants,” 
said he; “only I am not Vizard’s. 
I’m vours.” 

“In-deed!” 

“If you will let me.” 

“I am too poor to have fine serv- 
ants. ” 

“ Say too haughty. You are not 
too poor, for I shan’t cost you any 
thing but a gracious word now and 
then.” 

“Unfortunately I don’t deal in 
gracious words, only true ones.” 

“I see that.” 

“Then suppose you imitate me, and 
tell me why you came to meet me?” 

This question came from her with 
sudden celerity, like lightning out of 
a cloud, and she bent her eyes on 
him with that prodigious keenness she 
could throw into those steel-gray orbs, 
when her mind put on its full power 
of observation. 

Severne colored a little, and hesi- 
tated. 

“Come now,” said this keen witch, 
“ don’t wait to make up a reason. 
Tell the truth for once — quick ! — 
quick! — why did you come to meet 
me ?" 

“*[ didn’t come to be bullied,” re- 
plied supple Severne, affecting sullen- 
ness. 

“ You didn’t !” cried the other, act- 
ing vast surprise. “Then what did 
you come for ?’’ 

“ I don’t know ; and I wish I 
hadn’t come.” 

“ That I believe.” Rhoda shot 
this in like an arrow. 


“But,” continued Severne, “if / 
hadn’t, nobody would ; for it is Viz- 
ard’s justicing day, and the ladies are 
too taken up with a lord to come and 
meet such vulgar trifles as genius and 
learning and sci — ” 

“Come, come!” said Rhoda, con- 
temptuously; “ vou care as little 
about science and learning and gen- 
ius as I possess them. You won’t 
tell me? Well, I shall find you out.” 
Then, after a pause, “Who is this 
lord ?” 

“Lord Uxmoor.” 

“ What kind of a lord is he?” 

“A very bushy lord.” 

“Bushy? — oh, bearded like the 
pard! Now tell me,” said she, “is 
he cutting you out with Miss Vizard ?” 

“You shall judge for yourself. 
Please spare me on that one topic — 
if you ever spared any body in your 
life.” 

“Oh, dear me!” said Rhoda, cool- 
ly. “I’m not so very cruel. I'm 
only a little vindictive and cat-like. 
If people offend me, I like to play 
with them a bit, and amuse myself, 
and then kill them — kill them — kill 
them; that is all.” 

This pretty little revelation of char- 
acter was accompanied with a cruel 
smile that showed a long row of daz- 
zling white teeth. They seemed ca- 
pable of killing any thing from a liar 
up to a hickorv-nut. 

Severne looked at her and gave a 
shudder. “Then Heaven forbid you 
should ever be my enemy!” said he, 
sadlv, “for I am unhappy enough 
already.” 

Having delivered this disarming 
speech, he collapsed, and seemed to 
be overpowered with despondency. 
Miss Gale showed no signs of melt- 
ing. She leaned back and eyed him 
with steady and composed curiosity, 
as a zoologist studying a new speci- 
men and all its little movements. 

They drove up to the hall door, 
and Miss Gale was conducted to the 
drawing-room, where she found Lord 
Uxmoor and the two young ladies. 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


135 


Zoe shook hands with her. Fanny 
put a limp paw into hers, which made 
itself equally limp directly, so Fanny’s 
dropped out. Lord Uxmoor was pre- 
sented to her, at his own request. 
Soon after this, luncheon was an- 
nounced. Vizard joined them, wel- 
comed Rhoda genially, and told the 
party he had ordered the break, and 
Uxmoor would drive them to the 
farm round by Hillstoke and the 
Common. “And so,” said he, “by 
showing Miss Gale our most pictur- 
esque spot at once, we may perhaps 
blind her to the horrors of her situa- 
tion — for a time.” 

The break was driven round in due 
course, with Uxmoor's team harness- 
ed to it. It was followed bv a dog- 
cart crammed with grooms, Uxmoor- 
ian and Vizardian. The break was 
padded and cushioned, and held eight 
or nine people very comfortably. It 
was, indeed, a sort of picnic van, used 
only in very fine weather. It rolled 
on beautiful springs. Its present con- 
tents were Miss Gale and her lug- 
gage sind two hampers full of good 
things for her; Vizard, Severne, and 
Miss Dover. Zoe sat on the box 
beside Lord Uxmoor. They drove 
through the village, and Mr. Severne 
was so obliging as to point out its 
beauties to Miss Gale. She took lit- 
tle notice of his comments, except by 
a stiff nod every now and then, but 
eyed each house and premises with 
great keenness. 

At last she stopped his fluency by 
inquiring whether he had been into 
them all ; and when he said he had 
not, she took advantage of that ad- 
mission to inform him that in two 
days’ time she should be able to tell 
’ him a great deal more than he was 
likely to tell her, upon his method of 
inspecting villages. 

“That is right,” said Vizard; 
“snub him. He gets snubbed too 
•little here. How dare he pepper sci- 
ience with his small- talk? But it is 
/ our fault — we admire his volubility.” 

“Oh,” said Fanny, with a glance 


of defiance at Miss Gale, “if we are 
to talk nothing but science, it will be 
a weary world.” 

After the village there was a long, 
gradual ascent of about a mile, and 
then they entered a new country. It 
was a series of woods and clearings, 
some grass, some arable. Huge oaks 
flung 'their arms over a road lined on 
either side by short turf, close -crop- 
ped by the gypsies’ cattle. Some 
batid or other of them was always en- 
camped by the road -side, and never 
two bands at once. And between 
these giant trees, not one of which 
was ever felled, you saw here and 
there a glade, green as an emerald ; 
or a yellow stubble, glowing in the 
sun. After about a mile of this, still 
mounting, but gradually, they emerged 
upon a spacious table-land — a long, 
broad, open, grass plateau, studded 
with cottages. In this lake of grass 
Uxmoor drew up at a word from Zoe, 
to show Miss Gale the scene. The 
cottages were white as snow, and 
thatched as at Islip ; but instead of 
vegetable -gardens they all had or- 
chards. The trees were apple and 
cherry : of the latter not less than a 
thousand in that small hamlet. It 
was literally a lawn, a quarter of a 
mile long and about two hundred 
yards broad, bordered with white cot- 
tages and orchards. The cherries, 
red and black, gleamed like countless 
eyes among the cool leaves. There 
was a little church on the lawn that 
looked like a pigeon-house. A cow or 
two grazed peacefully. Pigs, big and 
little, crossed the lawn, grunting and 
squeaking satisfaction, and dived into 
the adjacent woods after acorns, and 
here and there a truffle the villagers 
knew not the value of. There was a 
pond or two in the lawn ; one had a 
wooden plank fixed on uprights, that 
went in some way. A woman was 
out on the board, bare-armed, dipping 
her bucket in for water. In anoth- 
er pond an old knowing horse stood 
gravely cooling his heels up to the fet- 
locks. These, with shirts, male and 


136 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


female, drying on a line, and white- 
headed children rolling in the dnst, 
and a donkey braying his heart out 
for reasons known only to himself, if 
known at all, were the principal de- 
tails of the sylvan hamlet ; but on a 
general survey there were grand beau- 
ties. The village and its turf lay in 
the semicircular sweep of an unbroken 
forest ; but at the sides of the leafy 
basin glades had been cut for drawing 
timber, stacking bark, etc., and what 
Milton calls so happily “ the check- 
ered shade” was seen in all its beau- 
ty ; for the hot sun struggled in at ev- 
ery aperture, and splashed the leaves 
and the path with fiery flashes and 
streaks, and topaz brooches, all inten- 
sified in fire and beauty by the cool 
adjacent shadows. 

Looking back, the view was quite 
open in most places. The wooded 
lanes and strips they had passed were 
little more in so vast a panorama than 
the black stripes on a backgammon- 
board. The site was so high that the 
eye swept over all, and rested on a 
broad valley beyond, with a patch- 
work pattern of variegated fields, and 
the curling steam of engines flying 
across all England ; then swept by a 
vast incline up to a horizon of faint 
green hills, the famous pastures of the 
United Kingdom. So that it was a 
deep basin of foliage in front; but 
you had only to turn your body, and 
there was a forty-mile view, with all 
the sweet varieties of color that gem 
our fields and meadows, as they bask 
in the afternoon sun of that golden 
time when summer melts into au- 
tumn, and mellows without a chill. 

“Oh, ’’cried Miss Gale, “don’t any 
bodv speak, please! It is too beauti- 
ful!” 

They respected an enthusiasm so 
rare in this young lady, and let her 
contemplate the scene at her ease. 

“I reckon,” said she, dogmatical- 
ly, and nodding that wise little head, 
“that this is Old England — the En- 
gland my ancestors left in search of 
liberty, and that’s a plant that ranks 


before cherry-trees, I rather think. 
No, I couldn’t have gone; I’d have 
staid and killed a hundred tyrants. 
But I wouldn’t have chopped their 
heads off” (to Vizard, very confiden- 
tially) ; “ I’d have poisoned ’em.” 

“Don’t, Miss Gale!” said Fanny; 
“you make my blood run cold.” 

As it was quite indifferent to Miss 
Gale whether she made Miss Dover’s 
blood run cold or not, she paid no 
attention, but proceeded with her 
reflections. “The only thing that 
spoils it is the smoke of those en- 
gines, reminding one that in two 
hours you or I, or that pastoral old 
hermit there in a smock-frock, and a 
pipe — and oh, what bad tobacco! — can 
be wrenched out of this paradise, and 
shrieked and rattled off and flung into 
that wilderness of brick called Lon- 
don, where the hearts are as hard as 
the pavement — except those that have 
strayed there from Barfordshire.” 

The witch changed face and tone 
and every thing like lightning, and 
threw this last in with a sudden grace 
and sweetness that contrasted strange- 
ly with her usual sharpness. 

Zoe heard, and turned round to 
look down on her with a smile as 
sweet as honey. “I hardly think 
that is a drawback,” said she, amica- 
bly. “Does not being able to leave 
a place make it sweeter? for then we 
are free in it, you know. But I must 
own there is a drawback — the boys’ 
faces, Miss Gale, they are so pasty.” 

“Indeed!” says Rhoda, pricking 
up her ears. 

“Form no false hopes of an epi- 
demic. This is not an infirmary ift 
a wood, Miss Gale,” said Vizard. 
“My sister is a great colorist, and 
pitches her expectations too high. I 
dare say their faces are not more 
pasty than usual ; but this is a show 
place, and looks like a garden ; so 
Zoe wants the boys to be poppies and 
pansies, and the girls roses and lilies. 
Which — they — a re — not. ” 

“All I know is,” said Zoe, resolute- 
ly, “that in Islip the children’s faces 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


137 


are rosy, but here they are pasty — 
dreadfully pasty.” 

“Well, you have got a box of col- 
ors. We will come up some day and 
tint all the putty-faced boys.” It was 
to Miss Dover the company owed this 
suggestion. 

“No,” said Rhoda. “Their faces 
are mv business; I’ll soon fix them. 
She didn’t say putty-faced; she said 
pasty.” 

“ Grateful to you for the distinction, 
Miss Gale, ’’said Zoe. 

Miss Gale proceeded to insist that 
boys are not pasty-faced without a 
cause, and it is to be sought lower 
down. “Ah!” cried she, suddenly, 
“is that a cherry that I see before 
me ? No, a million. They steal them 
and eat them by the thousand, and 
that’s why. Tell the truth, now, ev- 
ery body — they eat the stones.” 

Miss Vizard said she did not know, 
but thought them capable. 

“ Children know nothing,” said Viz- 
ard. “Please address all future sci- 
entific inquiries to an ‘old inhabitant.’ 
Miss Gale, the country abounds in cu- 
riosities ; but, among those curiosities, 
even Science, with her searching eye, 
has never yet discovered an unswal- 
lowed cherry-stone in Hillstoke vil- 
lage.” 

“What ! not on the trees ?” 

“ She is too much for me. Drive 
on, coachman, and drown her replies 
in the clatter of hoofs. Round by the 
Stag, Zoe. I am uneasy till I have 
locked Fair Science up. I own it is a 
mean way of getting rid of a trouble- 
some disputant.” 

“Now I think it is quite fair,” said 
Fanny. “She shuts you up, and so 
you lock her up.” 

“’Tis well,” said Vizard, dolefully. 
“ Now I am No. 3 — I who used to re- 
tort and keep girls in their places — 
with difficulty. Here is Ned Severne, 
too, reduced to silence. Why, where’s 
vonr tongue? Miss Gale, you would 
hardly believe it, this is our chatter- 
box. We have been days and days, 
and could not get in a word edgeways 


for him. But now all he can do is to 
gaze on you with canine devotion, and 
devour the honey— I beg pardon, the 
lime-juice — of your lips. I warn you 
of one thing, though ; there is such a 
thing as a threatening silence. He is 
evidently booking every word you ut- 
ter; and he will deliver it all for his 
own behind your back some fine day.” 

With this sort of banter and Small- 
talk, not worth deluging the readei 
dead with, they passed away the time 
till they reached the farm. 

“You stay here,” said Vizard — 
“all but Zoe. Tom and George, get 
the things out.” The grooms had al- 
ready jumped out of the dog-cart, and 
two were at the horses’ heads. The 
step-ladder was placed for Zoe, and 
Vizard asked her to go in and see the 
rooms were all right, while he took 
Miss Gale to the stables. He did so, 
and showed her a spirited Galloway 
and a steady old horse, and told her 
she could ride one and drive the other 
all over the country. 

She thanked him, but said her at- 
tention would be occupied by the two 
villages first, and she should make him 
a report in forty-eight hours. 

“As you please,” said he. “You 
are terribly in earnest.” 

“ What should I be worth if I was 
not?” 

“ Well, come and see your shell; 
and you must tell me if we have for- 
gotten anv thing essential to your com- 
fort.” 

She followed him, and he led her to 
a wing of the farm-house comparative- 
ly new, and quite superior to the rest. . 
Here were two good sunny rooms, 
with windows looking south and west, 
and they were both papered with a 
white watered pattern, and a pretty 
French border of flowers at the upper 
part, to look gay and cheerful. 

Zoe was in the bedroom, arranging 
things with a pretty air of hospitality. 
It was cheerily fitted up, and a fire of 
beech logs blazing. 

“How good you are!” said Rhoda, 


138 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


looking wistfully at her. But Zoe 
checked all comments by asking her 
to look at the sitting-room and see if 
it would do. Rhoda would rather 
have staid with Zoe ; but she com- 
plied, and found another bright, cheer- 
ful room, and Vizard standing in the 
middle of it. There was another 
beech fire blazing, though it was hot 
weather. Here was a round table, 
with a large pot full of flowers, gera- 
niums and musk flowers outside, with 
the sun gilding their green leaves most 
amiably, and every thing unpretend- 
ing, but bright and comfortable ; well- 
padded sofa, luxurious arm-chair, 
stand-up reading-desk, and a very large 
knee-hole table; a fine mirror from 
the ceiling to the dado ; a book-case 
with choice books, and on a pembroke 
table near the wall were several peri- 
odicals. Rhoda, after a cursory sur- 
vey of the room, flew to the books. 
“Oh!”said she, “what good books! 
all standard works; and several on 
medicine ; and, I declare, the last 
numbers of the Lancet and the Med- 
ical Gazette , and the very best French 
and German periodicals! Oh, what 
have I done? and what can I ever 
do?” 

“What! Are you going to gush 
like the rest — and about nothing?” 
said Vizard. “Then I’m off. Come 
along, Zoe;” and he hurried his sis- 
ter away. 

She came at the word ; but as soon 
as they were out of the house, asked 
him what was the matter. 

“ T thought she was going to gush. 
But I dare say it was a false alarm.” 

“And why shouldn’t she gush, 
when you have been so kind?” 

“Pooh — nonsense! I have not 
been kind to her, and don’t mean to 
be kind to her, or to any woman ; be- 
sides, she must not be allowed to gush ; 
she is the parish virago — imported 
from vast distances as such — and for 
her to play the woman would be an 
abominable breach of faith. We have 
got our gusher, likewise our flirt ; and 
it was understood from the first that 


this was to be a new dramatis persona 
— was not to be a repetition of you or 
la Dover, but — ahem — the third Grace, 
a virago : solidified vinegar.” 

Rhoda Gale felt very happy. She 
was young, healthy, ambitious, and 
sanguine. She divined that, some- 
how, her turning-point had come ; and 
when she contrasted her condition a 
month ago, and the hardness of the 
w r orld, with the comfort and kindness 
that now surrounded her, and the 
magnanimity which fled, not to be 
thanked for them, she felt for once in 
a way humble as well as grateful, and 
said to herself, “It is not to myself 
nor any merit of mine I ow'e such a 
change as all this is.” What some 
call religion, and others superstition, 
overpowered her, and she kneeled 
down and held communion with that 
great Spirit which, as she believed, 
pervades the material universe, and 
probably arises from it, as harmony 
from the well- strung harp. Theory 
of the day, or Plato redivivus — which 
is it? 

“O great creative element, and 
stream of tendencies in the universe, 
whereby all things struggle toward 
perfection, deign to be the recipient 
of that gratitude which fills me, and 
can not be silent ; and since gratitude 
is right in all, and most of all in me 
at this moment, forgive me if, in the 
weakness of my intellect, I fall into 
the old error of addressing you as an 
individual. It is but the weakness of 
the heart ; we are persons, and so 
w'e cry out for a personal God to be 
grateful to. Pray receive it so — if, 
indeed, these words of mine have any 
access to your infinitely superior nat- 
ure. And if it is true that you influ- 
ence the mind of man, and are by any 
act of positive volition the cause of 
these benefits I now profit by, then 
pray influence my mind in turn, and 
make me a more worthy recipient of 
all these favors; above all, inspire me 
to keep faithfully to my own sphere, 
which is on earth ; to be good and 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


139 


kind and tolerant to my fellow-creat- 
ures, perverse as they are sometimes, 
and not content myself with saying 
good words to you, to whose informa- 
tion I can add nothing, nor yet to 
your happiness, by any words of mine. 
Let no hollow sentiment of religion 
keep me long prating on my knees, 
when life is so short, and” (jumping 
suddenly up) “my duties can only be 
discharged afoot.” 

Refreshed by this aspiration, the 
like of which I have not yet heard 
delivered in churches — but the rising 
generation will perhaps be more fort- 
unate in that respect — she went into 
the kitchen, ordered tea, bread-and- 
butter, and one egg for dinner at sev- 
en o’clock, and walked instantly back 
to Hillstoke to inspect the village, ac- 
cording to her ideas of inspection. 

Next morning down comes the bail- 
iff’s head man in his light cart, and 
a note is delivered to Vizard at the 
breakfast table. He reads it to him- 
self, then proclaims silence, and reads 
it aloud : 

“Dear Sir, — As we crossed your 
hall to luncheon, there was the door 
of a small room half open, and I saw 
a large mahogany case standing on a 
marble table with one leg, but three 
claws gilt. I saw ‘ Micro’ printed on 
the case. So I hope it is a micro- 
scope, and a fine one. To enable you 
to find it, if you don’t know, the room 
had crimson curtains, and is papered 
in green flock. That is the worst of 
all the poisonous papers, because the 
texture is loose, and the poisonous 
stuff easily detached, and always fly- 
ing about the room. I hope you do 
not sit in it, nor Miss Vizard, because 
sitting in that room is courting death. 
Please lend me the microscope, if it 
i« one, and I’ll soon show you why the 
boys are putty-faced. I have inspect- 
ed them, and find Miss Dover’s epi- 
thet more exact than Miss Vizard’s, 
which is singular. I will take great 
care of it. Yours respectfully, 

“Rhoda Gale.” 


Vizard ordered a servant to de- 
liver the microscope to Miss Gale’s 
messenger with his compliments. 
Fanny wondered what she wanted 
with it. “Not to inspect our little 
characters, it is to be hoped,” said 
Vizard. “Why not pay her a visit, 
you ladies? then she will tell you, 
perhaps.” The ladies instantly wore 
that bland look of inert but rocky re- 
sistance I have already noted as a 
characteristic of “our girls.” Viz- 
ard saw, and said, “ Try and persuade 
them, Uxmoor.” 

“I can only offer Miss Vizard my 
escort,” said Lord Uxmoor. 

“And I offer both ladies mine,” 
said Ned Severne, rather loud and 
with a little sneer, to mark his su- 
perior breeding. The gentleman was 
so extremely polite in general that 
there was no mistaking his hostile in- 
tentions now. The inevitable war had 
begun, and the first shot was filed. 
Of course the wonder was it had not 
come long before ; and perhaps 1 
ought to have drawn more attention 
to the delicacy and tact of Zoe Viz- 
ard, which had averted it for a time. 
To be sure, she had been aided by the 
size of the house and its habits. The 
ladies had their own sitting-rooms; 
Fanny kept close to Zoe by special 
orders ; and nobody could get a 
chance tete -a - tete with Zoe unless 
she chose. By this means, by her 
native dignity and watchful tact, by 
her frank courtesy to Uxmoor, and 
by the many little quiet ways she 
took to show Severne her sentiments 
remained unchanged, she had man- 
aged to keep the peace, and avert 
that open competition for her favor 
which would have tickled the vanity 
of a Fanny Dover, but shocked the 
refined modesty of a Zoe Vizard. 

But nature will have her way soon 
or late, and it is the nature of males 
to fight for the female. 

At Severne’s shot Uxmoor drew up 
a little haughtily, but did not feel sure 
any thing was intended, lie was lit- 
tle accustomed to rubs. Zoe, on the 


140 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


other hand, turned a little pale — just 
a little, for she was sorry, but not sur- 
prised ; so she proved equal to the oc- 
casion. She smiled and made light 
of it. “ Of course we are all going,” 
said she. 

“ Except one,” said Vizard, dryly. 

“That is too bad,” said Fanny. 
“Here he drives us all to visit his 
blue-stocking, but he takes good care 
not to go himself.” 

“Perhaps he prefers to visit her 
alone,” suggested Severne. Zoe look- 
ed alarmed. 

“That is so,” said Vizard. “Ob- 
serve, I am learning her very phrases. 
When you come back, tell me every 
word she says ; pray let nothing be 
lost that falls from my virago.” 

The party started after luncheon ; 
and Severne, true to his new policy, 
whipped to Zoe’s side before Uxmoor, 
and engaged her at once in conversa- 
tion. 

Uxmoor bit his lip, and fell to Fan- 
ny. Fanny saw at once what was 
going on, and made herself very 
agreeable to Uxmoor. He was po- 
lite and a little gratified, but cast un- 
easy glances at the other pair. 

Meantime Severne was improving 
his opportunity. “ Sorry to disturb 
Lord Uxmoor’s monopoly,” said he, 
sarcastically, “but I could not bear it 
any longer.” 

“I do not object to the change,” 
said Zoe, smiling maternally on him ; 
“ but you will be good enough to imi- 
tate me in one thing — you will always 
be polite to Lord Uxmoor.” 

“ He makes it rather hard.” 

“It is only for a time; and we 
must all learn to be capable of self-de- 
nial. I assure you I have exercised 
quite as much as I ask of you. Ed- 
ward, he is a gentleman of great worth, 
universally respected, and my brother 
has a particular wish to be friends 
with him. So pray be patient ; be 
considerate. Have a little faith in one 
who — ” 

She did not end the sentence. 

“Well, I will,” said he. “But 


please think of me a little. I am be- 
ginning to feel quite thrust aside, and 
degraded in my own eyes for putting 
up with it.” 

“For shame, to talk so, ’’said Zoe ; 
but the tears came into her eyes. 

The master of arts saw, and said no 
more. He had the art of not overdo- 
ing : he left the arrow to rankle. He 
walked by her side in silence for ever 
so long. Then, suddenly, as if by a 
mighty effort of unselfish love, went 
off into delightful discourse. He 
cooed and wooed and flattered and 
fascinated ; and by the time they 
reached the farm, had driven Uxmoor 
out of her head. 

Miss Gale was out. The farmer’s 
wife said she had gone into the town 
— meaning Hillstoke — which was, 
strictly speaking, a hamlet or tribu- 
tary village. Hillstoke church was 
only twelve years old, and the tithes 
of the place went to the parson of Is- 
lip. 

When Zoe turned to go, Uxmoor 
seized the opportunity, and drew up 
beside her, like a soldier falling into 
the ranks. Zoe felt hot ; but as Sev- 
erne took no open notice, she could 
not help smiling at the behavior of 
the fellows ; and Uxmoor got his 
chance. 

Severne turned to Fanny with a 
wicked sneer. ‘ * Very well, my lord, ” 
said he ; “ but I have put a spoke in 
your wheel.” 

“As if I did not see, you clever 
creature!” said Fanny, admiringly. 

“Ah, Miss Dover, I need to be as 
clever as you ! See what I have 
against me : a rich lord, with the 
bushiest beard.” 

“ Never you mind,” said Fanny. 
“ Good wine needs no bush, ha! ha! 
You are lovely, and have a wheedling 
tongue, and you were there first. Be 
good, now — and you can flirt with me 
to fill up the time. I hate not being 
flirted at all. It is stagnation.” 

“ Yes, but it is not so easy to flirt 
with you just a little. You are so 
charming. ” Thereupon he proceeded 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


141 


to flatter her, and wonder how he 
had escaped a passionate attachment 
to so brilliant a creature. “What 
saved me,” said he, oracularly, “is, 
that I never could love two at once; 
and Zoe seized my love at sight. She 
left me nothing to lay at your feet but 
my admiration, the tenderest friend- 
ship man can feel for woman, and my 
life-long gratitude for fighting my bat- 
tle. Oh, Miss Dover, I must be quite 
serious a moment. What other lady 
but you would be so generous as to 
befriend a poor man with another 
lady, when there’s wealth and title on 
the other side ?” 

Fanny blushed and softened, but 
turned it otf. “ There — no heroics, 
please,” said she. “ You are a dear 
little fellow ; and don’t go and be 
jealous, for he sha’n’t have her. He 
would never ask me to his house, you 
know. Now 1 think you would, per- 
haps — who knows? Tell me, fasci- 
nating monster, are you going to be 
ungrateful ?” 

“ Not to you. My home would al- 
ways be yours ; and you know it. ” 
And he caught her hand and kissed 
it in an ungovernable transport, the 
strings of which he pulled himself. 
He took care to be quick about it, 
though, and not let Zoe or Uxmoor 
see, who were walking on before and 
behaving sedately. 

In Hillstoke lived, on a pension 
from Vizard, old Mrs. Greenaway, 
rheumatic about the lower joints, so 
she went on crutches : but she went 
fast, being vigorous, and so did her 
tongue. At Hillstoke she was Dame 
Greenaway, being a relic of that gen- 
eration which applied the word dame 
to every wife, high and low; but at Is- 
lip she was “Sally,” because she had 
started under that title, fifty-five years 
ago, as house-maid at Vizard Court; 
and, by the tenacity of oral tradition, 
retained it ever since, in spite of two 
husbands she had wedded and buried 
with equal composure. 

Her feet were still springy, her 
arms strong as iron, and her crutches 


active. At sight of our party she 
came out with amazing wooden 
strides, agog for gossip, and met them 
at the gate. She managed to indi- 
cate a courtesy, and said, “Good- 
day, miss ; your sarvant, all the com- 
pany. Lord, how nice you be dress- 
ed, all on ye, to — be — sure! Well, 
miss, have ve heerd the news?” 

“No, Sally. What is it?” 

“ What ! haant ye heerd about the 
young ’oman at the farm ?” 

“ Oh yes ; we came to see her.” 

“ No, did ye now ? Well, she was 
here not half an hour agone. By the 
same toaken, I did put her a question, 
and she answered me then and there.” 

“And may I ask what the question 
was?” 

“And welcome, miss. I said, says 
I, ‘Young ’oman, where be you come 
from ?’ so says she, * Old ’oman, I be 
come from forin parts.’ ‘I thought 
as much,’ says I. ‘And what be ’e 
come for?' ‘To sojourn here,’ says 
she, which she meant to bide a time. 
‘And what do ’e count to do whilst 
here you be ?’ says I. Says she, ‘ As 
much good as ever I can do, and as 
little harm.’ ‘That is no answer,’ 
says I. She said it would do for the 
present; ‘and good -day to you, 
ma’am,’ says she. ‘Your sarvant, 
miss,’ says I ; and she was off like a 
flash. But I called my grandson 
Bill, and I told him he must follow 
her, go where she would, and let us 
know what she was up to down in 
Islip. Then I went round the neigh- 
bors, and one told me one tale, and 
another another. But it all comes 
to one — we have gotten a busybody ; 
that’s the name I gives her. She 
don’t give in to that, ye know ; she is 
a Latiner, and speaks according. She 
gave Master Giles her own descrip- 
tion. Says she, ‘I’m suspector- gen- 
eral of this here districk.’ So then 
Giles he w r as skeared a bit — he have 
got an acre of land of his own, you 
know — and he up and asked her did 
she come under the taxes, or was she 
a fresh imposition; ‘for we are bur- 


142 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


dened enough a’ready, no offense to 
you, miss,’ says Josh Giles. ‘ Don’t 
you be sheared, old man,’ says she, * I 
sha’n’t cost you none ; your betters 
pays for I.’ So says Giles, ‘Oh, if 
you falls on squire, I don’t vally that ; 
squire’s back is broad enough to bear 
the load, but I’m a poor man.’ That’s 
how a’ goes on, ye know. Poverty is 
always in his mouth, but the old chap 
have got a hatful of money hid away 
in the thatch or some’re, only he 
haant a got the heart to spend it.” 

“Tell us more about the young 
lady,” asked Uxmoor. 

“What young lady? Oh, her. 
She is not a young lady — leastways 
she is not dressed like one, but like a 
plain, decent body. She was all of a 
piece — blue serge ! Bless your heart, 
the peddlers bring it round here at 
elevenpence half-penny the yard, and 
a good breadth too ; and plain boots, 
not heeled like vour’n, miss, nor 
your’n, ma’am ; and a felt hat like a 
boy. You’d say the parish had dress- 
ed her for ten shillings, and got a pot 
of beer out on’t.” 

“Well, never mind that,” said Zoe; 
“ I must tell you she is a very worthy 
young lady, and my brother has a re- 
spect for her. Dress? Why, Sally, 
you know it is not the wisest that 
spend most on dress. You might tell 
us what she does. ” 

Dame Greenaway snatched the 
word out of her mouth. “ Well, 
then, miss, what she have done, she 
have suspected every thing. She 
have suspected the ponds ; she have 
suspected the houses ; she have sus- 
pected the folk ; she must know what 
they eat and drink and wear next 
their very skin, and what they do lie 
down on. She have been at the very 
boys and forbade ’em to swallow the 
cherry - stones, poor things ; but old 
Mrs. Nash — which her boys lives on 
cherries at this time o’ year, and to 
be sure they are a godsend to keep 
the children hereabout from starving 
— well, Dame Nash told her the Al- 
mighty knew best; he had put ’em 


together on the tree, so why not in 
the boys’ insides ; and that was com- 
mon sense to my mind. But la! she 
wouldn’t heed it. She said, ‘Then 
you’d eat the peach -stones by that 
rule, and the fish bones and all.’ 
Says she, quite resolute like, ‘I forbid 
’em to swallow the stones;’ and says 
she, ‘Ye mawnt gainsay me, none on 
ye, for I be the new doctor.’ So then 
it all come out. She isn’t snspector- 
general ; she is a wench turned doctor, 
which it is against reason. Sha’n’t 
doctor me for one ; but that there old 
Giles, lie says he is agreeable, if so be 
she wool doctor him cheap — cussed 
old fool! — as if any doctoring was 
cheap that kills a body and doan’t 
cure ’em. Dear heart, I forgot to 
tell ye about the ponds. Well, you 
know there be no wells here. We 
makes our tea out of the ponds, and 
capital good tea to drink, far before 
well water, for I mind that one day 
about twenty years agone some inter- 
fering body did cart a barrel up from 
Islip ; and if we wants water without- 
en tea, why, we can get plenty on’t, 
and none too much malt and hops, at 
‘The Black Horse.’ So this here 
young ’oman she suspects the poor 
ponds, and casts a hevil-eye on them, 
and she borrows two mugs of Giles, 
and carries the water home to suspect 
it closer. That is all she have done 
at present, but, ye see, she haant been 
here so very long. You mark my 
words, miss, that young ’oman will 
turn Hillstoke village topsy-turvy or 
ever she goes back to London town.” 

“Nonsense, Sally,” said Zoe; 
“ who can any body do that while my 
brother and 1 are alive ?” She then 
slipped half a crown into Sally’s hand, 
and led the way to Islip. 

On the road her conversation with 
Uxmoor took a turn suggestive of this 
interview. I forget which began it; 
but they differed a little in opinion, 
Uxmoor admiring Miss Gale’s zeal 
and activity, and Zoe fearing that she 
would prove a rash reformer, perhaps 
a reckless innovator. 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


143 


“ And really,” said she, “ why dis- 
turb things? for, go where I will, I 
see no such Paradise as these two 
villages.” 

“‘They are indeed lovely,” said Ux- 
moor; “but my own village is very 
pretty. Yet on nearer inspection I 
have found so many defects, especial- 
ly in the internal arrangements of the 
cottages, that I am always glad to hear 
of a new eye having come to bear on 
any village.” 

“I know you are very good,” said 
Zoe, “and wish all the poor people 
about you to be as healthy and as hap- 
py as possible.” 

“ I really do,” said Uxmoor, warm- 
ly. “1 often think of the strange in- 
equality in the lot of men. Living in 
the country, I see around me hundreds 
of men who ar6 by nature as worthy 
as I am, or thereabouts. Yet they 
must toil and labor, and indeed fight, 
for bare food and clothing all their 
lives, and worse off at the close of their 
long labor. That is what grieves me 
to the heart. All this time I revel in 
plenty and luxuries — not forgetting 
the luxury of luxuries, the delight of 
giving to those who need and deserve. 
What have I done for all this? I 
have been born of the right parents. 
My merit, then, is the accident of an 
accident. But having done nothing 
meritorious before I was born, surely 
I ought to begin afterward. I think 
a man born to wealth ought to doubt 
his moral title to it, and ought to set 
to work to prove it — ought to set him- 
self to repair the injustice of fortune 
by which he profits. Yes, such a 
man should be a sort of human sun- 
shine, and diffuse blessings all round 
him. The poor man that encounters 
him ought to bless the accident. But 
there, I am not eloquent. You know 
how much more I mean than I can 
say. ” 

“Indeed I do,” said Zoe, “and I 
honor you.” 

“ Ah, Miss Vizard,” said Uxmoor, 
“that is more than I can ever de- 
serve. ” 


“You are praising me at your own 
expense,” said Zoe. “ Well, then,” 
said she, sweetly, “please accept my 
sympathy. It is so rare to find a gen- 
tleman of your age thinking so little 
of himself and so much of poor people. 
Yet that is a Divine command. But 
somehow we forget our religion out of 
church — most of us. I am sure I do, 
for one.” 

This conversation brought them to 
the village, and there they met Viz- 
ard, and Zoe repeated old Sally’s dis- 
course to him word for word. He 
shook his head solemnly, and said he 
shared her misgivings. “We have 
caught a Tartar.” 

On arriving at Vizard Court, they 
found Miss Gale had called and left 
two cards. 

Open rivalry having now com- 
menced between Uxmoor and Sev- 
erne, his lordship was adroit enough 
to contrive that the drag should be in 
request next day. 

Then Severne got Eanny to convey 
a note to Zoe, imploring her to open 
her bedroom window and say good- 
night to him the last. “Eor,” said 
he, “I have no coach and four, and I 
am very unhappy.” 

This and his staying sullenly at 
home spoiled Zoe’s ride, and she was 
cool to Uxmoor, and spoiled his drive. 

At night Zoe peeped through the 
curtain and saw Severne standing in 
the moonlight. She drank him in for 
some time in silence, then softly open- 
ed her window and looked out. He 
took a step nearer. 

She said, very softly and tenderly, 
“ You are very naughty and very fool- 
ish. Go to bed eft-rectly.” And she 
closed her window with a valiant slam ; 
then sat down and sighed. 

Same game next day. Uxmoor 
driving, Zoe wonderfully polite, but 
chill, because he was separating her 
and Severne. At night, Severne on 
the wet grass, and Zoe remonstrat- 
ing severely, but not sincerely, and 
closing the window peremptorily sh« 


144 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


would have liked to keep open half 
the night. 

It has often been remarked that 
great things arise out of small things, 
and sometimes, when in full motion, 
depend on small things. History of- 
fers brilliant examples upon its large 
stage. Fiction has imitated history in 
un verre d'eau and other compositions. 
To these examples, real or feigned, I 
am now about to add one ; and the 
curious reader may, if he thinks it 
worth while, note the various ramifi- 
cations at home and abroad of a seem- 
ingly trivial incident. 

They were all seated at luncheon, 
when a servant came in with a salver, 
and said, “A gentleman to see you, 
sir.” lie presented his salver with a 
card upon it. Severne clutched the 
card, and jumped up, reddening. 

“ Show him in here,” said the hos- 
pitable Vizard. 

“No, no,” cried Severne, rather 
nervously ; “ it is my lawyer on a lit- 
tle private business.” 

Vizard told the servant to show the 
visitor into the library, and take in the 
Madeira and some biscuits. 

“It is about a lease,” said Ned Sev- 
erne, and went out rather hurriedly. 

“La!” said Fanny, “what a curi- 
ous name — Poikilus. And what does 
S. I. mean, I wonder?” 

“ This is enigmatical discourse, ’’said 
Vizard, dryly. “Please explain.” 

“Why, the card had Poikilus on 
it.” 

“You are very inquisitive,” said 
Zoe, coloring. 

“No more than my neighbors. 
But the man put his salver right be- 
tween our noses, and how could I help 
seeing Poikilus in large letters, and S. 
I. in little ones up in the corner?” 

Said Vizard, “The female eye is 
naturally swift. She couldn’t help 
seeing all that in half a minute of time ; 
for Ned Severne snatched up the card 
with vast expedition.” 

“I saw that too,” said Fanny, de- 
fiantly. 


Uxmoor put in his word. “Poi- 
kilus! That is a name one sees in 
the papers.” 

“Of course yon do. He is one of 
the humbugs of the day. Pretends 
to find things out ; advertises mysteri- 
ous disappearances ; offers a magnifi- 
cent reward — with perfect safety, be- 
cause he has invented the lost girl’s 
features and dress, and her disappear- 
ance into the bargain ; and I hold 
with the school -men, that she who 
does not exist can not disappear. 
Poikilus, a puffing detective. S. I., 
Secret Inquiry. I spell Enquiry with 
an E — but Poikilus is a man of the 
day. What the deuce can Ned Sev- 
erne want of him ? I suppose I ought 
not to object. I have established a 
female detective at Hillstoke. So Ned 
sets one up at Islip. I shall make my 
own secret arrangements. If Poikilus 
settles here, he will be drawn through 
the horse-pond by small-minded rus- 
tics once a week.” 

While he was going on like this, 
Zoe felt uncomfortable, and almost ir- 
ritated by his volubility, and it was a 
relief to her when Severne returned. 
He had confided a most delicate case 
to the detective, given him written in- 
structions, and stipulated for his leav- 
ing the house without a word to any 
one, and, indeed, seen him off — all in 
seven minutes. Yet he returned to 
our party cool as a cucumber, to throw 
dust in every body’s eyes. 

“I must apologize for this intru- 
sion,” he said to Vizard ; “ but my 
lawyer wanted to consult me about 
the lease of one of my farms, and, find- 
ing himself in the neighborhood, he 
called instead of writing.” 

“Your lawyer, eh?” said Vizard, 
slyly. “What is your lawyer’s name?” 

“Jackson,” said Ned, without a 
moment’s hesitation. 

Fanny giggled in her own despite. 

Instead of stopping here, Severne 
must go on ; it was his unlucky day. 

“Not quite a gentleman, you know, 
or I would have inflicted his society 
on you.” 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


145 


“Not quite — eh?” said Harrington, 
so dryly that Fanny Dover burst into 
a fit of uncontrollable laughter. 

But Zoe turned hot and cold to see 
him blundering thus, and telling lie 
upon lie. 

ISeverne saw there was something 
wrong, and buried his nose in pigeon 
pie. He devoured it with an excel- 
lent appetite, while every eye rested 
on him ; Zoe’s with shame and mis- 
ery, Uxmoor’s with open contempt, 
Vizard’s with good-humored satire. 

The situation became intolerable 
to Zoe Vizard. Indignant and deeply 
shocked herself, she still could not 
bear to see him the butt of others’ rid- 
icule and contempt. She rose haugh- 
tily and marched to the door. He 
raised his head for a moment as she 
went out. She turned, and their eyes 
met. She gave him such a glance of 
pity and disdain as suspended the 
meat upon Ids fork, and froze him 
into comprehending that something 
very serious indeed had happened. 

He resolved to learn from Fanny 
what it was, and act accordingly. 
But Zoe’s maid came in and whisper- 
ed Fanny. She went out, and neither 
of the young ladies w r as seen till din- 
ner-time. It was conveyed to Ux- 
mour that there would be no excur- 
sion of any kind this afternoon ; and 
therefore he took his hat, and went off 
to pay a visit. He called on Rhoda 
Gale. She was at home. He intend- 
ed merely to offer her his respects, 
and to side with her generally against 
these foolish rustics ; but she was 
pleased with him for coming, and 
made herself so agreeable that he 
spent the whole afternoon comparing 
notes with her upon village life, and 
the amelioration it was capable of. 
Each could give the other valuable 
ideas ; and he said he hoped she would 
visit his part of the country ere long ; 
she would find many defects, but also a 
great desire to amend them. 

This flattered her, naturally ; and 
she began to take an interest in him. 
That interest soon took the form of 
7 


curiosity. She must know whether 
he was seriously courting Zoe Vizard 
or not. The natural reserve of a well- 
bred man withstood this at first ; but 
that armor could not resist for two 
mortal hours such a daughter of Eve 
as this, with her insidious questions, 
her artful statements, her cat-like re- 
treats and cat-like returns. She learn- 
ed — though he did not see how far he 
had committed himself — that he ad- 
mired Zoe Vizard, and would marry 
her to-morrow if she would have him ; 
his hesitation to ask her, because he 
had a rival, whose power he could not 
exactly measure; but a formidable 
and permitted rival. 

They parted almost friends ; and 
Rhoda settled quietly in her mind he 
should have Zoe Vizard, since he was 
so fond of her. 

Here again it was Severne’s un- 
lucky day, and Uxmoor’s lucky. To 
carry this same day to a close, Severne 
tried more than once to get near Zoe 
and ask if he had offended her, and in 
what. But no opportunity occurred. 
So then he sat and gazed at her, and 
looked unhappy. She saw, and was 
not unmoved, but would not do more 
than glance at him. He resigned 
himself to wait till night. 

Night came. He went on the grass. 
There was a light in Zoe’s room. 
It was eleven o’clock. He waited, 
shivering, till twelve. Then the light 
was put out ; but no window opened. 
There was a moon ; and her windows 
glared black on him, dark and bright 
as the eyes she now averted from him. 
He was in disgrace. 

The present incident I have re- 
corded did not end here ; and I must 
now follow Poikilus on his mission to 
Homburg; and if the reader has a 
sense of justice, methinks he will not 
complain of the journey, for see how 
long I have neglected the noblest fig' 
ure in this story, and the most to be 
pitied. To desert her longer would 
be too unjust, and derange entirely 
the balance of this complicated story. 


146 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


CHAPTER XVIII. _ 

A cruel mental stroke, like a heavy 
blow upon the body, sometimes be- 
numbs and sickens at first, but does 
not torture ; yet that is to follow. 

It was so with Ina Klosking. The 
day she just missed Edward Severne, 
and he seemed to melt away from her 
very grasp into the wide world again, 
she could drag herself to the theatre 
and sing angelically, with a dull and 
aching heart. But next day her 
heart entered on sharper suffering. 
She was irritated, exasperated ; chain- 
ed to the theatre, to Horn burg, yet 
wild to follow Severne to England 
without delay. She told Ashmead 
she must and would go. He opposed 
it stoutly, and gave good reasons. 
She could not break faith with the 
management. England was a large 
place. They had, as yet, no clue but 
a name. By waiting, the clue would 
come. The sure course was to give 
publicity in England to her winnings, 
and so draw Severne to her. 

But for once she was too excited to 
listen to reason. She was tempest- 
tossed. “ I will go — I will go,” she 
repeated, as she walked the room 
wildly, and flung her arms aloft with 
reckless abandon, and yet with a ter- 
rible majesty, an instinctive grace, and 
all the poetry of a great soul wronged 
and driven wild. 

She overpowered Ashmead and drove 
him to the director. He went most 
unwillingly ; but once there, was true 
to her, and begged off the engage- 
ment eagerly. The director refused 
this plump. Then Ashmead, still true 
to his commission, offered him (most 
reluctantly) a considerable sum down 
to annul the contract, and backed this 
with a quiet hint that she would cer- 
tainly fall ill if refused. The director 
knew by experience what this meant, 
and how easily these ladies can com- 
mand the human body to death’s door 
pro re nata, and how readily a doctor’s 
certificate can be had to say or swear 
that the great creature can not sing 


or act without peril to life, though 
really both these arts are grand medi- 
cines, and far less likely to injure the 
bona fide sick than are the certify- 
ing doctor’s draughts and drugs. The 
director knew all this ; but he was 
furious at the disappointment threat- 
ened him. “No,” said he; “this 
is always the way ; a poor devil of a 
manager is never to have a success. 
It is treacherous, it is ungrateful : I’ll 
close. You tell her if she is deter- 
mined to cut all our throats and kick 
her own good fortune down, she can ; 

but, by , I’ll make her smart for 

it ! Mind, now ; she closes the the- 
atre and pays the expenses, if she 
plays me false.” 

“But if she is ill ?” 

“Let her die and be , and 

then I’ll believe her. She is the 
healthiest woman in Germany. I’ll 
go and take steps to have her arrested 
if she offers to leave the town.” 

Ashmead reported the manager’s 
threats, and the Klosking received 
them as a lioness the barking of a 
cur. She drew herself swiftly up, 
and her great eye gleamed imperial 
disdain at all his menaces but one. 

“ He will not really close the thea- 
tre,” said she, loftily; but uneasiness 
lurked in her manner. 

“He will,” said Ashmead. “He 
is desperate : and you know it is hard 
to go on losing and losing, and then 
the moment luck turns to be done out 
of it, in spite of a written bargain. 
I’ve been a manager myself.” 

“So many poor people!” said Ina, 
with a sigh ; and her defiant head 
sunk a little. 

“Oh, bother them /” said Ashmead, 
craftily. “ Let ’em starve.” 

“God forbid!” said Ina. Then 
she sighed again, and her queenly 
head sunk lower. Then she faltered 
out, “I have the will to break faith 
and ruin poor people, but I have not 
the courage.” 

Then a tear or two began to trickle, 
carrying with them all the egotistical 
resolution Ina Klosking possessed at 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


that time. Perhaps we shall see her 
harden : nothing stands still. 

This time the poor conquered. 

But every now and then for many 
days there were returns of torment 
and agitation and wild desire to es- 
cape to England. 

Ashmead made head against these 
with his simple arts. For one thing, 
lie showed her a dozen paragraphs in 
MS. he was sending to as many En- 
glish weekly papers, describing her 
heavy gains at the table. “With 
these stones,” said he, “I kill two 
birds : extend your fame, and entice 
your idol back to you.” Here a 
growl, which I suspect was an inar- 
ticulate curse. Joseph, fie ! 

The pen of Joseph on such occa- 
sions was like his predecessor’s coat, 
polychromatic. The Klosking read 
him, and wondered. “Alas!” said 
she, “ with what versatile skill do you 
descant on a single circumstance not 
very creditable. ” 

“ Creditable !” said Ashmead ; “it 
was very naughty, but it is very nice.” 
And the creature actually winked, for- 
getting, of course, whom he was wink- 
ing at, and wasting his vulgarity on 
the desert air ; for the Klosking’s eye 
might just manage to blink — at the 
meridian sun, or so forth ; but it nev- 
er winked once in all its life. 

One of the paragraphs ran thus, 
with a heading in small capitals : 

“a prima donna at the gambling- 
table. 

“ Mademoiselle Klosking, the great 
contralto, whose success has been al- 
ready recorded in all the journals, 
strolled, on one of her off nights, into 
the Kursaal at Homburg, and sat 
down to trente et quarante. Her 
melodious voice was soon heard bet- 
ting heavily, with the most engaging 
sweetness of manner ; and doubling 
seven times upon the red, she broke 
the bank, and retired with a charming 
courtesy and eight thousand pounds 
in gold and notes.” 


147 

Another dealt with the matter thus: 
“rouge et noir. 

“The latest coup at Homburg has 
been made by a cantatrice whose 
praises all Germany are now ringing. 
Mademoiselle Klosking, successor and 
rival of Alboni, went to the Kursaal, 
pour passer le temps ; and she passed 
it so well that in half an hour the 
bank was broken, and there was a 
pile of notes and gold before La Klos- 
king amounting to ten thousand 
pounds and more. The lady waved 
these over to her agent, Mr. Joseph 
Ashmead, with a hand which, par pa- 
rentheses is believed to be the whitest 
in Europe, and retired gracefully.” 

On perusing this, La Klosking held 
two white hands up to heaven in 
amazement at the skill and good taste 
which had dragged this feature into 
the incident. 

“a dramatic situation. 

“A circumstance has lately occur- 
red here which will infallibly be seized 
on by the novelists in search of an in- 
cident. Mademoiselle Klosking, the 
new contralto, whose triumphant prog- 
ress through Europe will probably be 
the next event in music, walked into 
the Kursaal the other night, broke the 
bank, and walked out again with twelve 
thousand pounds, and that charming 
composure which is said to distinguish 
her in private life. 

“What makes it more remarkable 
is that the lady is not a gamester, has 
never played before, and is said to 
have declared that she shall never 
play again. It is certain that, with 
such a face, figure, and voice as hers, 
she need never seek for wealth at the 
gambling-table. Mademoiselle Klos- 
king is now in negotiation with all the 
principal cities of the Continent. But 
the English managers, we apprehend, 
will prove awkward competitors.” 

Were I to reproduce the nine oth- 
er paragraphs, it would be a very cu- 


148 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


lious, instructive, and tedious speci- 
men of literature ; and, who knows ? 
I might corrupt some immaculate 
soul, inspire some actor or actress, 
singer or songstress, with an itch for 
public self- laudation, a foible from 
which they are all at present so free. 
Witness the Era , the Hornet , and 
F igaro. 

Ina Klosking spotted what she con- 
ceived to be a defect in these histories. 
“My friend,” said she, meekly, “the 
sum I won was under five thousand 
pounds.” 

“Was it? Yes, to be sure. But, 
you see, these are English advertise- 
ments. Now England is so rich that 
if you keep down to any Continental 
sum, you give a false impression in 
England of the importance on the 
spot. ” 

“And so we are to falsify figures? 
In the first of these legends it was 
double the truth ; and, as I read, it 
enlarges — oh, but it enlarges,” said 
Ina, with a Gallicism we shall have 
to forgive in a lady who spoke five 
languages. 

“Madam,” said Ashmead, dryly, 
“you must expect your capital to in- 
crease rapidly, so long as I conduct 
it.” 

Not being herself swift to shed 
jokes, Ina did not take them rapidly. 
iShe stared at him. He never moved 
a muscle. She gave a slight shrug 
of her grand shoulders, and resigned 
that attempt to reason with the creat- 
ure. 

She had a pill in store for him, 
though. She told him that, as she 
had sacrificed the longings of her 
heart to the poor of the theatre, so 
she should sacrifice a portion of her 
ill-gotten gains to the poor of the 
town. 

He made a hideously wry face at 
that, asked what poor-rates were for, 
and assured her that “pauper” meant 
“ drunkard.” 

“ Jt is not written so in Scripture,” 
said Ina; “and I need their prayers, 
for I am very unhappy.” 


In short, Ashmead was driven out 
from the presence - chamber with a 
thousand thalers to distribute among 
the poor of Homburg; and, once in 
the street, his face did not shine like 
an angel of mercy’s, but was very 
pinched and morose : hardly recog- 
nizable— poor Joe! 

By-and-by he scratched his head. 
Now it is unaccountable, but certain 
heads often yield an idea in return 
for that. Joseph’s did, and his coun- 
tenance brightened. 

Three days after this Ina was sur- 
prised by a note from the Burgomas- 
ter, saying that he and certain of the 
town council would have the honor 
of calling on her at noon. 

What might this mean ? 

She sent to ask for Mr. Ashmead ; 
he was not to be found ; he had hid- 
den himself too carefully. 

The deputation came and thanked 
her for her munificent act of charity. 

She looked puzzled at first, then 
blushed to the temples. “ Munifi- 
cent act, gentlemen! Alas! I did 
but direct my agent to distribute a 
small sum among the deserving poor. 
He has done very ill to court your 
attention. My little contribution 
should have been as private as it is 
insignificant.” 

“Nay, madam,” said the clerk of 
the council, who was a recognized 
orator, “your agent did well to con- 
sult our worthy Burgomaster, who 
knows the persons most in need and 
most deserving. We do not doubt 
that you love to do good in secret. 
Nevertheless, we have also our sense 
of duty, and we think it right that so 
benevolent an act should be publish- 
ed, as an example to others. In the 
same view, we claim to comment 
publicly on your goodness.” Then 
he looked to the Burgomaster, who 
took him up. 

“And we comment thus : Madam, 
since the Middle Ages the freedom 
of this town has not been possessed 
by any female. There is, however, 
no law forbidding it, and therefore, 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


149 


madam, the civic authorities, whom 
I represent, do hereby present to you 
the freedom of this burgh.” 

He then handed her an emblazoned 
vellum giving her citizenship, with 
the reasons written plainly in golden 
letters. 

Ina Klosking, who had remained 
quite quiet during the speeches, wait- 
ed a moment or two, and then re- 
plied, with seemly grace and dignity : 

“ Mr. Burgomaster and gentlemen, 
you have paid me a great and unex- 
pected compliment, and I thank you 
for it. But one thing makes me un- 
easy : it is that I have done so little 
to deserve this. I console myself, 
however, by reflecting that 1 am still 
young, and may have opportunities to 
show myself grateful, and even to de- 
serve, in the future, this honor, which 
at present overpays me, and almost 
oppresses me. On that understand- 
ing, gentlemen, be pleased to bestow, 
and let me receive, the rare compli- 
ment you have paid me by admitting 
me to citizenship in your delightful 
town.” (To herself:) “I’ll scold him 
well for this.” 

Low courtesy ; profound bows ; 
exit deputation enchanted with her; 
manet Klosking with the freedom of 
the city in her hand and ingratitude 
in her heart ; for her one idea was to 
get hold of Mr. Joseph Ashmead di- 
rectly, and reproach him severely for 
all this, which she justly ascribed to 
his machinations. 

The cunning Ashmead divined her 
project, and kept persistently out of 
her way. That did not suit her nei- 
ther. She was lonely. She gave the 
waiter a friendly line to bring him to 
her. Now, mind you, she was too 
honest to pretend she was not going 
to scold him. So this is what she 
wrote : 

“My Friend, — Have you desert- 
ed me? Come to me, and be remon- 
strated. What have you to fear? 
You know so well how to defend 
yourself. Ina Klosking.” 


Arrived in a very few minutes Mr. 
Ashmead, jaunty, cheerful, and de- 
fensive. 

Ina, with a countenance from which 
all discontent was artfully extracted, 
laid before him, in the friendliest way 
you can imagine, an English Bible. 
It was her father’s, and she always 
carried it with her. “I wish,” said 
she, insidiously, “to consult you on 
a passage or two of this book. How 
do you understand this : 

“ ‘When thou doest thine alms, do 
not send a trumpet before thee, as the 
hypocrites do.’ 

“And this : 

“ ‘ When thou doest thine alms, 
let not thy right hand know what thy 
left hand doeth, that thine alms may 
be in secret ; and thy Father, which 
seeth in secret, shall reward thee 
openly.’ ” 

Having pointed out these sentences 
with her finger, she looked to him for 
his interpretation. Joseph, thus erect- 
ed into a Scripture commentator, look- 
ed at the passages first near, and then 
afar off, as if the true interpretation 
depended on perspective. Having 
thus gained a little time, he said, 
“Well, I think the meaning is clear 
enough. We are to hide our own 
light under a bushel. But it don’t 
say an agent is to hide his employ- 
er’s. ” 

“Be serious, sir. This is a great 
authority.” 

“Oh, of course, of course. Still 
— if you won’t be offended, ma'am — 
times are changed since then. It 
was a very small place, where news 
spread of itself ; and all that can not 
be written for theatrical agents, be- 
cause there wasn’t one in creation.” 

“And so now their little customs, 
lately invented, like themselves, are ' 
to prevail against God’s im-mor-tai 
law!” It was something half-way 
between Handel and mellowed thun- 
der the way her grand contralto sud- 
denly rolled out these three words. 
Joseph was cunning. He put on 
a crushed appearance, deceived by 


150 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


which the firm but gentle Klosking 
began to soften her tone directly. 

“It has given me pain,” said she, 
sorrowfully. “And I am afraid God 
will be angry with us both for our 
ostentation.” 

“ Not He,” said Joseph, consoling- 
ly. “Bless your heart, He is not 
half so irritable as the parsons fancy ; 
they confound Him with themselves.” 

Ina ignored this suggestion with 
perfect dignity, and flowed on : “ All 
I stipulate now is that I may not see 
this pitiable parade in print.” 

“That is past praying for, then,” 
said Ashmead, resolutely. “ You 
might as well try to stop the waves as 
check publicity — in our day. Your 
munificence to the poor — confound 
the lazy lot! — and the gratitude of 
those pompous prigs, the deputation 
— the presentation — your admirable 
reply—” 

“You never heard it, now — ” 

* ‘ Which, as you say, I was not so for- 
tunate as to hear, and so must content 
myself with describing it — all this is 
flying north, south, east, and west.” 

“Oh no, no, no! You have not 
advertised it ?” 

“ Not advertised it ! For what do 
you take me ? Wait till you see the 
bill I am running up against you. 
Madam, you must take people as 
they are. Don’t try to un- Ash mead 
me ; it is impossible. Catch up that 
knife and kill me. I’ll not resist ; on 
the contrary, I’ll sit down and prepare 
an obituary notice for the weeklies, 
and say I did it. But while I 

BREATHE I ADVERTISE.” 

And Joseph was defiant ; and the 
Klosking shrugged her noble shoul- 
ders, and said, “You best of creat- 
ures, you are incurable.” 

To follow this incident to its con- 
clusion, not a week after this scene, 
Ina Klosking detected, in an English 
paper, 

U A CHARITABLE ACT. 

“ Mademoiselle Klosking, the great 
contralto, having won a large sum of 


money at the Kursaal, has given a 
thousand pounds to the poor of the 
place. The civic authorities hearing 
of this, and desirous to mark their 
sense of so noble a donation, have 
presented her with the freedom of the 
burgh, written on vellum and gold. 
Mademoiselle Klosking received the 
compliment with charming grace and 
courtesy ; but her modesty is said to 
have been much distressed at the pub- 
licity hereby given to an act she wished 
to be known only to the persons re- 
lieved by her charity.” 

Ina caught the culprit, and showed 
him this. “A thousand pounds!” 
said she. “Are you not ashamed? 
Was ever a niggardly act so embel- 
lished and exaggerated? I feel my 
face very red, sir.” 

“Oh, I'll explain that in a mo- 
ment,” said Joseph, amicably. “ Each 
nation has a coin it is always quoting. 
France counts in francs, Germany in 
thalers, America in dollars, England 
in pounds. When a thing costs a 
million francs in France, or a million 
dollars in the States, that is always 
called a million pounds in the English 
journals : otherwise it would convey 
no distinct idea at all to an English- 
man. Turning thalers and francs into 
pounds — that is not exaggeration ; it 
is only translation .” 

Ina gave him such a look. He re- 
plied with an unabashed smile. 

She shrugged her shoulders in si- 
lence this time, and, to the best of 
my belief, made no more seiious at- 
tempts to un- Ashmead her Ashmead. 

A month had now passed, and that 
was a little more than half the dreary 
time she had to wade through. She 
began to count the days, and that 
made her pine all the more. Time 
is like a kettle. Be blind to him, 
he flies ; watch him, he lags. Her 
sweet temper was a little affected, 
and she even reproached Ashmead 
for holding her out false hopes that 
his advertisements of her gains would 


151 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


induce Severne to come to her, or 
even write. “No,” said she; “there 
must be some greater attraction. Karl 
says that Miss Vizard, who called 
upon me, was a beauty, and dark. 
Perhaps she was the lovely girl I saw 
at the opera. She has never been 
there since : and he is gone to En- 
gland with people of that name.” 

“ Well, but that Miss Vizard called 
on you. She can’t intend to steal him 
from you.” 

“But she may not know; a wom- 
an may injure another without in- 
tending. He may deceive her; he 
has betrayed me. Her extraordinary 
beauty terrifies me. It enchanted 
me ; and how much more a man ?” 

Joseph said he thought this was all 
fancy ; and as for his advertisements, 
it was too early yet to pronounce on 
their effect. 

The very day after this conversa- 
tion he bounced into her room in 
great dudgeon. 1 ‘There, madam! 
the advertisements have produced an 
effect ; and not a pleasant one. Here’s 
a detective on to ns. He is feeling his 
way with Karl. I knew the man in 
a moment ; calls himself Poikilus in 
print, and Smith to talk to ; but he is 
Aaron at the bottom of it all, and 
can speak several languages. Con- 
found their impudence! putting a de- 
tective on to us, when it is they that 
are keeping dark.” 

“ Who do you think has sent him ?” 
asked Ina, intently. 

“The party interested, I suppose.” 

“ Interested in what?” 

“ Why, in the money you won ; 
for he was drawing Karl about that.” 

“Then he sent the man!” And 
Ina began to pant and change color. 

“Well, now you put it to me, I 
think so. Come to look at it, it is 
certain. Who else could it be ? Here 
is a brace of sweeps. They wouldn’t 
be the worse for a good kicking. You 
say the word, and Smith shall have 
one, at all events.” 

“Alas! my friend,” said Ina, “for 
once you are slow. What ! a messen- 


ger comes here direct from him ; and 
are we so dull we can learn nothing 
from him who comes to question us? 
Let me think.” 

She leaned her forehead on her 
white hand, and her face seemed slow- 
ly to fill with intellectual power. 

“ That man,” said she at last, “is 
the only link between him and me. 
I must speak to him.” 

Then she thought again. 

“ No, not yet. He must be detain- 
ed in the house. Letters may come 
to him, and their postmarks may give 
us some clue.” 

“I’ll recommend the house to him.” 

“ Oh, that is not necessary. He 
will lodge here of his own accord. 
Does he know you ?” 

“I think not.” 

“Do not give him the least suspi- 
cion that you know he is a detective.” 

“All light, I won’t.” 

“If he sounds you about the mon- 
ey, say nobody knows much about it, 
except Mademoiselle Klosking. If 
you can get the matter so far, come 
and tell me. But be you, very re- 
served, for you are not clear.” 

Ashmead received these instructions 
meekly, and went into the salle a man- 
ger and ordered dinner. Smith was 
there, and had evidently got some in- 
formation from Karl, for he opened 
an easy conversation with Ashmead, 
and it ended in their dining together. 

Smith played the open-handed coun- 
tryman to the life — stood Champagne. 
Ashmead chattered, and seemed quite 
off his guard. Smith approached the 
subject cautiously. “ Gamble here 
as much as ever?” 

“All day, some of them.” 

“Ladies and all?” 

“ Why, the ladies are the worst.” 

“No ; are they now ? Ah, that re- 
minds me. I heard there was a lady 
in this very house won a pot o’ money.” 

“It is true. I am her agent.” 

“I suppose she lost it all next 
day ?” 

“ Well, not all, for she gave a thou- 
sand pounds to the poor.” 


152 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


“The dress -makers collared the 
rest ?” 

“I can not say. I have nothing 
to do except with her theatrical busi- 
ness. She will make more by that 
than she ever made at play.” 

“ What, is she tip-top ?” 

“The most rising singer in Eu- 
rope. ” 

“I should like to see her.” 

“That you can easily do. She 
sings to-night. I’ll pass you in.” 

“You are a good fellow. Have a 
bit of supper with me afterward. Bot- 
tle of fizz.” 

These two might be compared to a 
couple of spiders, each taking the other 
for a fly. Smith was enchanted with 
Ina’s singing, or pretended. Ashmead 
was delighted with him, or pretended. 

“ Introduce me to her,” said Smith. 

“I dare not do that. You are not 
professional, are you ?” 

“No, but you can say I am, for a 
lark.” 

Ashmead said he should like to; 
but it would not do, unless he was 
very wary. 

“Oh, I’m fly, ” said the other. “She 
won’t get any thing out of me. I’ve 
been behind the scenes often enough.” 

Then Ashmead said he wotdd go 
and.ask her if he might present a Lon- 
don manager to her. He soon brought 
back the answer. “She is too tired 
to-night : but I pressed her, and she 
says she will be charmed if you will 
breakfast with her to-morrow at elev- 
en.” He did not say that he was to 
be with her at half-past ten for special 
instructions. They were very simple. 
“ My friend,” said she, “ I mean to 
tell this man something which he will 
think it his duty to telegraph or write 
to him immediately. It was for this 
I would not have the man to supper, 
being after post- time. This morning 
he shall either write or telegraph, and 
then, if you are as clever in this as you 
are in some things, you will watch him, 
and find out the address he sends to.” 

Ashmead listened very attentively, 
and fell into a brown study. 


“Madam,” said he at last, “this is 
a first-rate combination. You make 
him communicate with England, and 
I will do the rest. I f he telegraphs, 
I’ll be at his heels. If he goes to the 
post, I know a way. If lie posts in 
the house, he makes it too easy.” 

At eleven Ashmead introduced his 
friend “Sharpus, manager of Drury 
Lane Theatre,” and watched the fen- 
cing match with some anxiety, Ina 
being little versed in guile. But she 
had tact and self-possession ; and she 
was not an angel, after all, but a wom- 
an whose wits were sharpened by love 
and suffering. 

Sharpus, alias Smith, played his as- 
sumed character to perfection. He 
gave the Klosking many incidents of 
business and professional anecdotes, 
and was excellent company. The 
Klosking was gracious, and more 
bonne enfant than Ashmead had ever 
seen her. It was a fine match be- 
tween her and the detective. At last 
he made his approaches. 

“And I hear we are to congratulate 
you on success at rouge et noir as well 
as opera. Is it true that you broke 
the bank ?” 

“Perfectly,” was the frank reply. 

“And won a million ?” 

“More or less, ’’said the Klosking, 
with an open smile. 

“ I hope it was a good lump, for 
our countrymen leave hundreds of 
thousands here every season.” 

“It was four thousand nine hun- 
dred pounds, sir.” 

“ Phew ! Well, I wish it had been 
double. You are not so close as our 
friend here, madam.” 

“No, sir; and shall I tell you 
why?” 

“If vou like, madam,” said Smith, 
with assumed indifference. 

“Mr. Ashmead is a model agent; 
he never allows himself to see any 
body’s interests but mine. Now the 
truth is, another person has an inter- 
est in my famous winnings. A gen- 
tleman handed £25 to Mr. Ashmead 
to play with. He did not do so; but 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


153 


I came in and joined £25 of my own 
to that £25, and won an enormous 
sum. Of course, if the gentleman 
chooses to he chivalrous and abandon 
his claim, he can ; hut that is not the 
way of the world, you know. I feel 
sure he will come to me for his share 
some day ; and the sooner the better, 
for money burns the pocket.” 

Sharpus, alias Smith, said this was 
really a curious story. “Now sup- 
pose,” said he, “some fine day a let- 
ter was to come asking you to remit 
that gentleman his half, what should 
you do?” 

“I should decline; it might he 
an escroc. No. Mr. Ashmead here 
knows the gentleman. Do you not ?” 

“ I’ll swear to him anywhere.” 

“Then to receive his money he 
must face the eye of Ashmead. Ha ! 
ha !” 

The detective turned the conversa- 
tion, and never came back to the sub- 
ject; but shortly he pleaded an en- 
gagement, and took his leave. 

Ashmead lingered behind, but Ina 
hurried him off, with an emphatic 
command not to leave this man out 
of his sight a moment. 

He violated this order, for in five 
minutes he ran back to tell her, in an 
agitated whisper, that Smith was at 
that moment writing a letter in the 
salle a manger. 

“Oh, pray don’t come here!” cried 
Ina, in despair. “Do not lose sight 
of him for a moment.” 

“ Give me that letter to post, then,” 
said Ashmead, and snatched one up 
Ina had directed overnight. 

He went to the hotel door, and 
lighted a cigar ; out came Smith with 
a letter in his very hand. Ashmead 
peered with all his eyes ; but Smitli 
held the letter vertically in his hand 
and the address inward. The letter 
was sealed. 

Ashmead watched him, and saw he 
was going to the General Post. He 
knew a shorter cut, ran, and took it, 
and lay in wait. As Smith approached 
the box, letter in hand, he bustled up 


in a furious hurry, and posted his own 
letter so as to stop Smith’s hand at 
the very aperture before he could in- 
sert his letter. He saw, apologized, 
and drew back. Smith laughed, and 
said, “All right, old man. That is 
to your sweetheart, or you wouldn’t 
be in such a hurry.” 

“ No ; it was to my grandmother,” 
said Ashmead. 

“Go on,” said Smith, and poked 
the ribs of Joseph. They went home 
jocular; but the detective was no 
sooner out of the way than Ashmead 
stole up to Ina Klosking, and put his 
finger to his lips ; for Karl was clear- 
ing away, and in no hurry. 

They sat on tenter - hooks and 
thought he never would go. He did 
go at last, and then the Klosking and 
Ashmead came together like two mag- 
nets. 

“ Well ?” 

“All right! Letter to post. Saw 
address quite plain — Edward Severne, 
Esq.” 

“Yes. ” 

“Vizard Court.” 

“Ah!” 

“ Taddington — Barfordshire — En- 
gland.” 

Ina, who was standing all on fire, 
now sat down and interlaced her 
hands, “ Vizard !” said she, gloom- 

ity- 

“ Yes ; Vizard Court,” said Ashmead, 
triumphantly ; ‘ ‘ that means he is a large 
landed proprietor, and you will easily 
find him if he is there in a month.” 

“ He will be there,” said Ina. “ She 
is very beautiful. She is dark, too, 
and he loves change. Oh, if to all I 
have suffered he adds that — ” 

“Then you will forgive him that ,” 
said Ashmead, shaking his head. 

“ Never. Look at me, Joseph Ash- 
mead.” 

He looked at her with some awe, 
for she seemed transformed, and her 
Danish eye gleamed strangely. 

“Yon who have seen my torments 
and my fidelity, mark what I say : If 
he is false to me with another woman, 


151 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


I shall kill him — or else I shall hate 
him.” 

She took her desk and wrote, at 
Ashmead’s dictation, 

“Vizard Court, 

Taddington, 

Barfordshire. ” 


CHAPTER XIX. 

The next morning Vizard carried 
Lord Uxmoor away to a magistrates’ 
meeting, and left the road clear to 
Severne ; but Zoe gave him no op- 
portunity until just before luncheon, 
and then she put on her bonnet and 
came down -stairs; but Fanny was 
with her. 

Severne, who was seated patiently 
in his bedroom with the door ajar, 
came out to join them, feeling sure 
Fanny would openly side with him, 
or slip away and give him his oppor- 
tunity. 

But, as the young ladies stood on 
the broad flight of steps at the hall 
door, an antique figure drew nigh — 
an old lady, the shape of an egg, so 
short and stout was she. On her head 
she wore a black silk bonnet construct- 
ed many years ago, with a droll de- 
sign, viz., to keep off sun, rain, and 
wind ; it was like an iron coal-scuttle, 
slightly shortened ; yet have I seen 
some very pretty faces very prettily 
framed in such a bonnet. She had an 
old black silk gown that only reached 
to her ankle, and over it a scarlet 
cloak of superfine cloth, fine as any 
colonel or queen's outrider ever wore, 
and looking splendid, though she had 
used it forty years, at odd times. This 
dame had escaped the village ill, rheu- 
matics, and could toddle along with- 
out a staff at a great, and indeed a 
fearful, pace ; for, owing to her build, 
she yawed so from side to side at ev- 
ery step that, to them who knew her 
not, a capsize appeared inevitable. 

“ Mrs. Judge, I declare,” cried Zoe. 


“Ay, miss, Hannah Judge it is. 
Your sarvant, ma’am and she drop- 
ped two courtesies, one for each lady. 

Mrs. Judge was Harrington’s old 
nurse. Zoe often paid a visit to her 
cottage, but she never came to Vizard 
Court except on Harrington’s birth- 
day, when the servants entertained 
all the old pensioners and retainers 
at supper. Her sudden appearance, 
therefore, and in gala costume, aston- 
ished Zoe. Probably her face betray- 
ed this, for the old lady began, “You 
wonder to see me here, now, doan’t 
ye?” 

“ Well, Mrs. Judge,” said Zoe, dip- 
lomatically, “ nobody has a better 
right to come.” 

“You be very good, miss. I don’t 
doubt my welcome nohow. ” 

“But,” said Zoe, playfully, “you 
seldom do us the honor; so I am a 
little surprised. What can I do for 
you?” 

“You does enough for me, miss, 
you and young squire. I bain’t come 
to ask no favors. I ain’t one o’ that 
sort. I’ll tell ye why I be come. ’Tis 
to warn you all up here.” 

“This is alarming,” said Zoe to 
Fanny. 

“That is as may be,” said Mrs. 
Judge; “forewarned, fore-armed, the 
by -word sayeth. There is a young 
’oman a-prowling about this here par- 
ish as don’t belong to Aus.” 

“La,” said Fanny, “mustn’t we 
visit your parish if we were not born 
there?” 

“Don’t you take me up before I 
be down, miss,” said the old nurse, a 
little severely. “ ’Tain’t for the likes 
of you I speak, which you are a lady, 
and visits the Court by permission of 
squire ; but what I objects to is — hin- 
terlopers.” She paused to see the ef- 
fect of so big a word, and then re- 
sumed. graciously, “You see, most of 
our hills comes from that there Hill- 
stoke. If there’s a poacher, or a thief, 
he is Hillstoke. They harbors the 
gypsies as ravages the whole country, 
mostly ; and now they have let loose 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


155 


tills here young ’oman on to us. She 
is a Poll Pry : goes about the town 
n-sarching : pries into their housen 
and their vittels, and their very beds. 
Old Marks have got a muck-heap at 
his door ; for his garden, ye know. 
Well, miss, she sticks her parasole 
into this here, and turns it about, as 
if she was agoing to spread it: says 
she, ‘I must know the de-com-po-si- 
tion of this ’ere, as you keeps under 
the noses of your young folk.’ Well, 
I seed her agoing her rounds, and 
the folk had told me her ways; so I 
did set me down to ray knitting and 
wait for her, and when she came to 
me I offered her a seat; so she sat 
down, and says she, ‘ This is the one 
clean house in the village,’ says she: 
‘you might eat your dinner off the 
floor, let alone the chairs and tables.’ 
‘You are very good, miss,’ says I. 
Says she, ‘ I wonder whether up-stairs 
is as nice as this?’ * Well,’ says I, 
‘ them as keep it down-stairs keeps it 
hup ; I don’t drop cleanliness on the 
stairs, you may be sure.’ ‘I suppose 
not,’ says she, ‘but I should like to 
see.’ That was what I was a-waiting 
for, you know, so I said to her, ‘ Cu- 
riosity do breed curiosity,’ says I. 
‘ Afore you sarches this here house 
from top to bottom, I should like to 
see the warrant.’ ‘What warrant?’ 
says she. ‘ I’ve no warrant. Don’t 
take me for an enemy,’ says she. 
‘ I’m your best friend, ’ says she. ‘ I’m 
the new doctor.’ I told her I had 
heard a whisper of that too ; but we 
had got a parish doctor already, and 
one was enough. ‘Not when he nev- 
er comes anigh you,’ says she, ‘and 
lets you go half-way to meet your dis- 
eases.’ ‘I don’t know for that,’ says 
I, and indeed I haan’t a notion what 
she meant, for my part; but says I, 

‘ I don't want no women folk to come 
here a-doctoring o’ me, that’s sartain.’ 
So she said, ‘ But suppose you were 
very ill, and the he-doctor three miles 
off, and fifty others to visit afore you ?’ 
‘That is no odds,’ says I; ‘I would 
not be doctored by a woman.’ Then 


she says to me, says she, ‘ Now you 
look me in the face.’ ‘ I can do that.,’ 
says I ; ‘ you, or any body else. I’m 
an honest woman, 7am ;’ so I up and 
looked her in the face as bold as brass. 
‘ Then,’ says she, ‘ am I to understand 
that, if you was to be ill to-morrow, 
you would rather die than be doctor- 
ed by a woman?’ She thought to 
daant me, you see, so I says, ‘ Well, 
I don’t know as I oodn’t.’ You do 
laugh, miss. Well, that is what she 
did. ‘All right,’ says she. ‘Make 
haste and die, my good soul,’ says she, 
‘ for, while you live, you’ll be a hobe- 
lisk to reform.’ So she went off, but 
I made to the door, and called after 
her I should die when God pleased, 
and I had seen a good many young 
folk laid out, that looked as like to 
make old bones as ever she does — 
chalk-faced — skinny — to-a-d ! And I 
called after her she was no lady. No 
more she ain’t, to come into my own 
house and call a decent woman ‘ a 
hobelisk!’ Oh! oh! Which I nev- 
er was, not even in my giddy days, 
but did work hard in my youth, and 
arn respect for my old age.” 

“Yes, nurse, yes ; who doubts it?” 

“And nursed young squire, and, 
Lord bless your heart, a was a poor 
puny child when I took him to my 
breast, and in six months the finest, 
chubbiest boy in all the parish; and 
his dry-nurse for years arter, and al- 
ways at his heels a-keeping him out 
of the stable and the ponds, and con- 
sorting with the village boys ; and a 
proper resolute child he was, and hard 
to manage : and my own man that is 
gone, and my son ‘ that’s not so clever 
as some,'* I always done justice by 
them both, and arter all to be called 
a hobelisk — oh! oh! oh!” 

Then behold the gentle Zoe with 
her arm round nurse’s neck, and Ijer 
handkerchief to nurse’s eyes, mur- 
muring, “There — there — don’t cry, 
nurse ; every body esteems you, and 

* Paraphrase for the noun substantive 
“idiot.” It is also a specimen of the 
Greek figure “litotes.” 


156 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


that lady did not mean to affront 
you; she did not say ‘obelisk;’ she 
said ‘obstacle.’ That only means 
that you stand in the way of her 
improvements ; there was not much 
harm in that, you know. And, nurse, 
please give that lady her wav, to 
oblige me; for it is by my brother’s 
invitation she is here.” 

“Ye doan’t say so! What, does 
he hold with female she-doctoresses ?” 

“He wishes to try one. She has 
his authority.” 

“Ye doan’t say so!” 

“Indeed I do.” 

“ Con — sarn the wench ! why 
couldn’t she say so, ’stead o’ liargefy- 
ing?” 

“ She is a stranger, and means 
well; so she did not think it neces- 
sary. You must take my word for 
it.” 

‘ ‘ La, miss, I’ll take vour’n before 
hers, you may be sure,” said Mrs. 
Judge, with a decided remnant of 
hostility. 

And now a proverbial incident hap- 
pened. Miss Rhoda Gale came in 
sight, and walked rapidly into the 
group. 

After greeting the ladies, and ig- 
noring Severne, who took off his hat 
to her, with deep respect, in the back- 
ground, she turned to Mrs. Judge. 
“ Well, old lady,” said she, cheerfully, 
“and how do you do?” 

Mrs. Judge replied, in fawning ac- 
cents, “Thank you, miss, I be well 
enough to get about. I was a-telling 
’em about you — and, to be sure, it is 
uncommon good of a lady like you to 
trouble so much about poor folk. ” 

“Don’t mention it; it is my duty 
and my inclination. You see, my 
good woman, it is not so easy to cure 
diseases as people think ; therefore it 
is a part of medicine to prevent them : 
and to prevent them you must remove 
the predisposing causes, and to find 
out all those causes you must have 
eyes, and use them.” 

“You are right, miss,” said La 
Judge, obsequiously. “ Prevention 


is better nor eure, and they say ‘a 
stitch in time saves nine.’” 

“That is capital good sense, Mrs. 
Judge; and pray tell the villagers 
that, and make them as full of 1 the 
wisdom of nations ’ as you seem to be, 
and their houses as clean — if you can.” 

“I’ll do my best, miss,” said Mrs. 
Judge, obsequiously; “it is the least 
we can all do for a young lady like 
you that leaves the pomps and vani- 
ties, and gives her mind to bettering 
the condishing of poor folk.” 

Having once taken this cue, and 
entered upon a vein of flattery, she 
would have been extremely voluble — 
for villages can vie with cities in adu- 
lation as well as in detraction — but 
she was interrupted by a footman an- 
nouncing luncheon. 

Zoe handed Mrs. Judge over to the 
man, with a request that he would be 
kind to her, and have her to dine 
with the servants. 

Yellowplush saw the gentlefolks 
away, and then, parting his legs, and 
putting his thumbs into his waist- 
coat-pockets, delivered himself thus : 
“Well, old girl, am I to give you my 
harm round to the kitchen, or do you 
know the way by yourself?” 

“Young chap,” said Mrs. Judge, 
and turned a glittering eye, “ I did 
know the way afore you was born, 
and I should know it all one if so be 
you was to be hung, or sent to Botany 
Bay — to larn manners.” 

Having delivered this shot, she rolled 
away in the direction of Roast Beef. 

The little party had hardly settled 
at the table when they were joined 
by Vizard and Uxmoor : both gentle- 
men welcomed Miss Gale more heart- 
ily than the ladies had done, and 
before luncheon ended Vizard asked 
her if her report was ready. She said 
it was. 

“ Have you got it with you ?” 

“Yes.” 

“Then please hand it to me.” 

“Oh! it is in my head. I don’t 
write much down ; that weakens the 
memory. If you would give ine half 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


15? 


an hour after luncheon — ” She hesi- 
tated a little. 

Zoe jealoused a tete-a-tete , and par- 
ried it skillfully. ‘‘Oh,” said she, 
“but we are all much interested : are 
not you, Lord Uxmoor?” 

“Indeed I am, ’’said Uxmoor. 

“So am I,” said Fanny, who didn’t 
care a button. 

“Yes, but,” said Rhoda, “truths 
are not always agreeable, and there 
are some that I don’t like — ” She 
hesitated again, and this time actually 
blushed a little. 

The acute Mr. Severne, who had 
been watching her slyly, came to her 
assistance. 

“Look here, old fellow,” said he to 
Vizard, “ don’t you see that Miss Gale 
has discovered some spots in your par- 
adise? but, out of delicacy, does not 
want to publish them, but to confide 
them to your own ear. Then you can 
mend them or not.” 

Miss Gale turned her eyes full on 
Severne. “You are very keen at 
reading people, sir,” said she, dryly. 

“Of course he is,” said Vizard. 
“ He has given great attention to your 
sex. Well, if that is all, Miss Gale, 
pray speak out. and gratify their curi- 
osity. You and I shall never quarrel 
over the truth.” 

“ I’m not so sure of that, ’’said Miss 
Gale. “However, I suppose I must 
risk it. I never do get my own way ; 
that's a fact.” 

After this little ebullition of spleen, 
she opened her budget. “First of 
all, I find that these villages all belong 
to one person ; so does the soil. No- 
body can build cottages on a better 
model, nor make any other improve- 
ment. You are an absolute monarch. 
This is a piece of Russia, not England. 
They are all serfs, and you are the 
Czar.” 

“It is true,” said Vizard, “and it 
sounds horrid, but it works benignly. 
Every snob who can grind the poor 
does grind them ; but a gentleman 
never, and he hinders others. Now, 
for instance, an English farmer is gen- 


erally a tyrant ; but my power limits 
his tyranny. He may discharge his 
laborer, but he can’t drive him out of 
the village, nor rob him of parish re- 
lief, for poor Hodge is my tenant, not 
a snob’s. Nobody can build a beer- 
shop in Islip. That is true. But if 
they could, they would sell bad beer, 
give credit in the ardor of competition, 
poison the villagers, and demoralize 
them. Believe me, republican insti- 
tutions are beautiful on paper; but 
they would not work well in Barford- 
shire villages. However, you profess 
to go by experience in every thing. 
There are open villages within five 
miles. I’ll give you a list. Visit 

them. You will find that liberty can 
be the father of tyranny. Petty trades- 
men have come in and built cottages, 
and ground the poor down with rents 
unknown in Islip ; farmers have built 
cottages, and turned their laborers into 
slaves. Drunkenness, dissipation, pov- 
erty, disatfection, and misery — that is 
what you will find in the open villages. 
Now, in Islip you have an omnipotent 
squire, and that is an abomination in 
theory, a medueval monster, a blot on 
modern civilization ; but practically 
the poor monster is a softener of pov- 
erty, an incarnate buffer between the 
poor and tyranny, the poor and mis- 
ery. ” 

“ I’ll inspect the open villages, and 
suspend my opinion till then,” said 
Miss Gale, heartily ; “ but, in the 

mean time, you must admit that where 
there is great power there is great re- 
sponsibility.” 

“ Oh, of course.” 

“Well, then, your little outlying 
province of Hillstoke is full of rheu- 
matic adults and putty-faced children. 
The two phenomena arise from one 
cause — the water. No lime in it, and 
too many reptiles. It was the children 
gave me the clue. I suspected the 
cherry-stones at first: but when J 
came to look into it, I found they eat 
just as many cherry-stones in the val- 
ley, and are as rosy as apples ; but, 

then, there is well-water in the valleys. 


158 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


So I put this and that together, and 
I examined the water they drink at 
Hillstoke. Sir, it is full of animalcula. 
Some of these can not withstand the 
heat of the human stomach ; but oth- 
ers can, for I tried them in mud arti- 
ficially heated. [A giggle from Fan- 
ny Dover.] Thanks to your micro- 
scope, I have made sketches of several 
nmphibia who live in those boys’ stom- 
achs, and irritate their membranes, 
and share their scanty nourishment, 
besides other injuries.” Thereupon 
she produced some drawings. They 
were handed round, and struck terror 
in gentle bosoms. “Oh, gracious!” 
cried Fanny, “one ought to drink 
nothing but Champagne.” Uxtnoor 
looked grave. Vizard affected to 
doubt their authenticity. He said, 
“You may not know it, but I am a 
zoologist, and these are antediluvian 
eccentricities that have long ceased to 
embellish the world we live in. Fie! 
Miss Gale. Down with anachro- 
nisms.” 

Miss Gale smiled, and admitted that 
one or two of the prodigies resembled 
antediluvian monsters, but said orac- 
ularly that nature was fond of produ- 
cing the same thing on a large scale 
and a small scale, and it was quite 
possible the small type of antediluvian 
monster might have survived the large. 

“That is most ingenious, ’’said Viz- 
ard; “ but it does not account for this 
fellow. lie is not an antediluvian ; 
he is a barefaced modern, for he is a 

STEAM-ENGINE.” 

This caused a laugh, for the creature 
had a perpendicular neck, like a fun- 
nel, that rose out of a body like a hor- 
izontal cylinder. 

“At any rate,” said Miss Gale, 
“the little monster was in the world 
first ; so he is not an imitation of 
man’s work.” 

“Well,” said Vizard, “after all, 
we have had enough of the monsters 
of the deep. Now we can vary the 
monotony, and say the monsters of 
the shallow. But I don’t see how 
they can cause rheumatism.” 


“I never said they did,” retorted 
Miss Gale, sharply: “but the water 
which contains them is soft water. 
There is no lime in it, and that is bad 
for the bones in every way. Only 
the children drink it as ft is : the 
wives boil it, and so drink soft water 
and dead reptiles in their tea. The 
men instinctively avoid it, and drink 
nothing but beer. Thus, for want of 
a pure diluent with lime in solution, 
an acid is created in the blood which 
produces gout in the rich, and rheu- 
matism in the poor, thanks to their 
meagre food and exposure to the 
weather.” 

“ Poor things !” said womanly Zoe. 
“What is to be done?” 

“La!” said Fanny, “throw lime 
into the ponds : that will kill the mon- 
sters, and cure the old people’s bones 
into the bargain.” 

This compendious scheme struck 
the imagination, but did not satisfy 
the judgment of the assembly. 

“Fanny!” said Zoe, reproachfully. 

“That would be killing two birds 
with one stone,” suggested Uxmoor, 
satirically. 

“The tender mercies of the wick- 
ed are cruel,” explained Vizard, com- 
posedly. 

Zoe reiterated her question, what 
was to be done ? 

Miss Gale turned to her with a 
smile. “ We have got nothing to do 
but to point out these abominations. 
The person to act is the Russian auto- 
crat, the paternal dictator, the mon- 
arch of all he surveys, and advocate 
of monarchical institutions. He is the 
buffer between the poor and all their 
ills, especially poison : he must dig a 
well.” 

Every eye being turned on Vizard 
to see how he took this, he said, a 
little satirically, “ What ! does Sci- 
ence bid me bore for water at the top 
of a hill ?” 

“She does so,” said the virago. 
“Now look here, good people.” 

And although they were not all good 
people, yet they all did look there, 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


159 


she shone so with intelligence, being 
now quite on her metal. 

“ Half-civilized man makes blun- 
ders that both the savage and the civ- 
ilized avoid. The savage builds his 
hut by a running stream. The civil- 
ized man draws good water to his 
door, though he must lay down pipes 
from a highland lake to a lowland 
city. It is only half-civilized man 
that builds a village on a hill, and 
drinks worms, and snakes, and efts, 
and antediluvian monsters in limeless 
water. Then I say, if great but half- 
civilized monarchs would consult Sci- 
ence before they built their serf huts, 
Science would say, ‘ Don’t you go 
and put down human habitations far 
from pure water — the universal dilu- 
ent, the only cheap diluent, and the 
only liquid which does not require di- 
gestion, and therefore must always 
assist, and never chemically resist, the 
digestion of solids.’ But when the 
mischief is done, and the cottages are 
built on a hill three miles from water, 
then all that Science can do is to show 
the remedy, and the remedy is — bor- 
ing.” 

“Then the remedy is like the dis- 
cussion,” said Fanny Dover, very pert- 
ly. 

Zoe was amused, but shocked. Miss 
Gale turned her head on the offender 
as sharp as a bird. “ Of course it is, 
to children ,” said she; “and that is 
why I wished to confine it to mature 
minds. It is to you I speak, sir. 
Are your subjects to drink poison, or 
will you bore me a well ? — Oh, please ! ” 

“Do you hear that?” said Vizard, 
piteously, to Uxmoor. “Threatened 
and cajoled in one breath. Who can 
resist this fatal sex ? — Miss Gale, I 
will bore a well on Hillstoke common. 
Any idea how deep we must go — to 
the antipodes, or only to the centre?” 

“ Three hundred and thirty feet, or 
thereabouts.” 

“ No more ? Any idea what it will 
cost ?” 

“Of course I have. The well, the 
double windlass, the iron chain, the 


two buckets, a cupola over the well, 
and twenty-three keys — one for every 
head of a house in the hamlet — will 
cost you about £315.” 

“Why, this is Detail made woman. 
How do you know all this ?” 

“From Tom Wilder.” 

“Who is he?” 

“ What, don’t you know ? He is 
the eldest son of the Islip blacksmith, 
and a man that will make his mark. 
He casts every Thursday night. He 
is the only village blacksmith in all 
the county who casts. You know 
that, I suppose.” 

“ No. I had not the honor.” 

“Well, he is, then: and I thought 
you would consent, because you are 
so good : and so I thought there 
could be no harm in sounding Tom 
Wilder. He offers to take the whole 
contract, if squire’s agreeable; bore 
the well ; brick it fifty yards down : 
he says that ought to be done, if she 
is to have justice. ‘ She ’ is the well : 
and he will also construct the gear ; 
he says there must be two iron chains 
and two buckets going together; so 
then the empty bucket descending will 
help the man or woman at the wind- 
lass to draw the full bucket up. £315: 
one week’s income, your Majesty.” 

“She has inspected our rent-roll, 
now,” said Vizard, pathetically : “and 
knows nothing about the matter.” 

“Except that it is a mere flea-bite 
to you to bore through a hill for water. 
For all that, I hope you will leave me 
to battle it with Tom Wilder. Then 
you won’t be cheated, for once. You 
always are , and it is abominable. It 
would have been five hundred if you 
had opened the business.” 

“ I am sure that is true,” said Zoe. 
She added this would please Mrs. 
Judge : she was full of the superiori- 
ty of Islip to Hillstoke. 

“ Stop a bit,” said Vizard. “Miss 
Gale has not reported on Islip yet.” 

“No, dear; but she has looked 
into every thing, for Mrs. Judge told 
me. You have been into the cot- 
tages ?” 


160 


A WOMAN-HATER 


“ Yes.” 

“Into Marks’s?” 

“Yes, I have been into Marks’s.” 

She did not seem inclined to be 
very communicative; so Fanny, out 
of mischief, said, pertly, “And what 
did vou see there, with your Argus 
eye?” 

“I saw — three generations.” 

“Ha! ha! La! did you now? 
And what were they all doing?” 

“They were all living together, 
night and day, in one room.” 

This conveyed no very distinct idea 
to the ladies ; but Vizard, for the first 
time, turned red at this revelation 
before Uxmoer, improver of cottage 
life. “Confound the brutes!” said 
he. “ Why, I built them a new room ; 
a larger one : didn’t you see it ?” 

“Yes. They stack their potatoes 
in it.” 

“Just like my people,” said Ux- 
moor. “ That is the worst of it : they 
resist their own improvement.” 

“Yes, but, ’’said the doctress, “with 
monarchical power we can trample on 
them for their good. Outside Marks’s 
door at the back there is a muck-heap, 
as he calls it; all the refuse of the 
house is thrown there; it is a horri- 
ble melange of organic matter and de- 
caying vegetables, a hot-bed of fever 
and malaria. Suffocated and poison- 
ed with the breath of a dozen persons, 
they open the window for fresh air, 
and in rushes typhoid from the strong- 
hold its victims have built. Two chil- 
dren were buried from that house last 
year. They were both killed by the 
domestic arrangements as certainly as 
if they had been shot with a double- 
barreled pistoL The outside roses 
you admire so are as delusive as flat- 
tery ; their sweetness covers a foul, 
unwholesome den.” 

‘ ‘ Marks’s cottage ! The show place 
of the village!” Zoe Vizard flushed 
with indignation at the bold hand of 
truth so rudely applied to a pleasant 
and cherished illusion. 

Vizard, more candid and open to 
new truths, shrugged his shoulders, 


and said, “ What can I do more than 
I have done ?” 

“Oh, it is not your fault,” said the 
doctress, graciously. “It is theirs. 
Only, as you are their superior in in- 
telligence and power, you might do 
something to put down indecency, 
immorality, and disease.” 

“May I ask what?” 

“ Well, you might build a granary 
for the poor people’s potatoes. No 
room can keep them dry; but you 
build your granary upon four pillars : 
then that is like a room over a cel- 
lar.” 

“ Well, I’ll build it so— if I build it 
at all,” said Vizard, dryly. “What 
next?” 

“Then you could make them stack 
their potatoes in the granary, and use 
the spare room, and so divide their 
families, and give morality a chance. 
The muck -heap you should disperse 
at once with the strong hand of pow- 
er.” 

At this last proposal, Squire Vizard 
— the truth must be told — delivered 
a long, plowman’s whistle at the head 
of his own table. 

“Pheugh!” said he; “for a lady 
that is more than half republican, 
you seem to be taking very kindly to 
monarchical tyranny.” 

“Well, now, I’ll tell you the truth,” 
said she. “You have converted me. 
Ever since you promised me the well, 
I have discovered that the best form 
of government is a good-hearted ty- 
rant.” 

“With a female viceroy over him, 
eh?” 

“ Only in these little domestic 
matters,” said Rhoda, deprecatingly. 
“Women are good advisers in such 
things. The male physician relies on 
drugs. Medical women are wanted 
to moderate that delusion ; to prevent 
disease by domestic vigilance, and cure 
it by well-selected esculents and pure 
air. These will cure fifty for one that 
medicine can ; besides, drugs kill ever 
so many : these never killed a creat- 
I ure. You will give me the granary, 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


161 


won’t you? Oh, and there’s a black 
pond in the centre of the village. 
Your tenant Pickett, who is a fool 
— begging his pardon — lets all his 
liquid manure run out of his yard into 
the village till it accumulates in a 
pond right opposite the five cottages 
they call New Town, and its exhala- 
tions taint the air. There are as 
many fevers in Islip as in the back 
slums of a town. You might fill the 
pond up with chalk, and compel Pick- 
ett to sink a tank in his yard, and 
cover it ; then an agricultural treas- 
ure would be preserved for its proper 
use, instead of being perverted into a 
source of infection. 1 ’ 

Vizard listened civilly, and, as she 
stopped, requested her to go on. 

“I think we have had enough,” 
said Zoe, bitterly. 

Rhoda, who was in love with Zoe, 
hung her head, and said, “Yes; I 
have been very bold.” 

“ Fiddle - stick !” said Vizard. 
“Never mind those girls. You 
speak out like a man : a stranger’s 
eye always discovers things that es- 
cape the natives. Proceed.” 

“No; I won’t proceed till I have 
explained to Miss Vizard.” 

“You may spare yourself the trou- 
ble. Miss Vizard thought Islip was 
a paradise. You have dispelled the 
illusion, and she will never forgive 
you. Miss Dover will ; because she 
is like Gallio — she careth for none of 
these things.” 

“Not a pin,” said Fanny, with ad- 
mirable frankness. 

“Well, but,” said Rhoda, naively, 
“ I can’t bear Miss Vizard to be an- 
gry with me ; I admire her so. Please 
let me explain. Islip is no paradise 
— quite the reverse ; but the faults of 
Islip are not your faults. The chil- 
dren are ignorant ; but you pay for a 
school. The people are poor from in- 
sufficient wages ; but you are not pay- 
master. Your gardeners, your hinds, 
and all your outdoor people have 
enough. You give them houses. You 
let cottages and gardens to the rest at 


half their value ; and very often they 
don’t pay that, but make excuses ; 
and you accept them, though they are 
all stories ; for they can pay every 
body but you, and their one good bar- 
gain is with you. Miss Vizard has 
carried a basket all her life with things 
from your table for the poor.” 

Miss Vizard blushed crimson at this 
sudden revelation. 

“If a man or a woman has served 
your house long, there’s a pension for 
life. You are easy, kind, and chari- 
table. It is the faults of others I ask 
you to cure, because you have such 
power. Now, for instance, if the boys 
at Hillstoke are putty-faced, the boys 
at Islip have no calves to their legs. 
That is a sure sign of a deteriorating 
species. The lower type of savage 
has next to no calf. The calf is a 
sign of civilization and due nourish- 
ment. This single phenomenon was 
my clue, and led me to others ; and 
I have examined the mothers and the 
people of all ages, and I tell you it is 
a village of starvelings. Here a child 
begins life a starveling, and ends as 
he began. The nursing mother has 
not food enough for one, far less for 
two. The man’s wages are insuffi- 
cient, and the diet is not only insuf- 
ficient, but injudicious. The race 
has declined. There are only five 
really big, strong men — Josh Grace, 
Will Hudson, David Wilder, Absa- 
lom Green, and Jack Greenaway ; 
and they are all over fifty — men of 
another generation. I have ques- 
tioned these men how they were bred, 
and they all say milk was common 
when they were boys. Many poor 
people kept a cow ; squire doled it ; 
the farmers gave it or sold it cheap ; 
but nowadays it is scarcely to be had. 
Now, that is not your fault, but you 
are the man who can mend it. New 
milk is meat and drink, especially to 
young and growing people. You have 
a large meadow at the back of the 
village. If you could be persuaded to 
start four or five cows, and let some- 
body sell their new milk to the poor 


162 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


at cost price — say, five farthings the 
quart. You must not give it, or they 
will water their muck - heaps with it. 
With those cows alone you will get 
rid, in the next generation, of the 
half- grown, slouching men, the hol- 
low - eyed, narrow - chested, round- 
backed women, and the calfless boys 
one sees all over Islip, and restore the 
stalwart race that filled the little vil- 
lage under your sires, and have left 
proofs of their wholesome food on the 
tombstones : for I have read every in- 
scription, and far more people reached 
eighty -five between 1750 and 1800 
than between 1820 and 1870. Ah, 
how I envy you to be able to do such 
great things so easily ! Water to 
poisoned Hillstoke with one hand; 
milk to starved Islip with the other. 
This is to be indeed a king!” 

The enthusiast rose from the table 
in her excitement, and her face was 
transfigured ; she looked beautiful for 
the moment. 

“Ill do it,” shouted Vizard; “and 
you are a trump.” 

Miss Gale sat down, and the color 
left her cheek entirely. 

Fanny Dover, who had a very quick 
eye for passing events, cried out, 
“ Oh dear ! she is going to faint now." 
The tone implied, what a plague she is ! 

Thereupon Severne rushed to her, 
and was going to sprinkle her face ; 
but she faltered, “No! no! a glass 
of wine.” He gave her one with all 
the hurry and empressement in the 
world. She fixed him with a strange 
look as she took it from him : she sip- 
ped it ; one tear ran into it. She said 
she had excited hersel ; but she was 
all right now. Elastic Rhoda ! 

“1 am very glad of it,” said Viz- 
ard. “You are quite strong enough 
without fainting. For Heaven’s sake, 
don’t add woman’s weakness to your 
artillery, or you will be irresistible; 
and I shall have to divide Vizard 
Court among the villagers. At pres- 
ent I get off cheap, and Science on the 
Rampage : let me see — only a gran- 
ary, a well, and six cows.” 


“They’ll give as much milk as 
twelve cows without the well,” said 
Fanny : it was her day for wit. 

This time she was rewarded with a 
general laugh. 

It subsided, as such things will, and 
then Vizard said, solemnly, “New 
ideas are suggested to me by this 
charming interview ; and permit me 
to give them a form, which will doubt- 
less be new to these accomplished 
ladies : 

“ ‘Gin there’s a hole in a’ your coats, 

I rede ye tent it ; 

A chiel’s amaugye takin’ notes, 

And, faith, he’ll preut it.’ ” 

Zoe looked puzzled, and Fanny in- 
quired what language that was. 

“Very good language.” 

“Then perhaps you will translate 
it into language one can understand.” 

“ The English of the day, eh ?” 

“Yes.” 

“You think that would improve it, 
do you ? Well, then : 

“ ‘If there is a defect in any one of your 
habiliments, 

Let me earnestly impress on you the ex- 
pediency of repairing it; 

An individual is among you with singu- 
lar powers of observation, 

Which will infallibly result in printing 
and publication.’ 

Zoe, you are an affectionate sister; 
take this too observant lady into the 
garden, poison her with raw fruit, and 
bury her under a pear-tree.” 

Zoe said she would carry out part 
of the programme, if Miss Gale would 
come. 

Then the ladies rose and rustled 
away, and the rivals would have fol- 
lowed, but Vizard detained them on 
the pretense of consulting them about 
the well; but. when the ladies had 
gone, he owned he had done it out of 
his hatred to the sex. He said he 
was sure both girls disliked his virago 
in their hearts, so he had compelled 
them to spend an hour together, with- 
out any man to soften their asperity. 

This malicious experiment was tol- 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


163 


erably successful. The three ladies 
strolled together, dismal as souls in 
purgatory. One or two little attempts 
at conversation were made, but died 
out for want of sympathy. Then Fan- 
ny tried personalities, the natural top- 
ic of the sex in general. 

“Miss Gale, which do you admire 
most, Lord Uxmoor or Mr. Severne ?” 

“ For their looks ?” 

“ Oh, of course.” 

“ Mr. Severne.” 

“You don’t admire beards, then ?” 

‘ ‘ That depends. Where the mouth 
is well shaped and expressive, the 
beard spoils it. Where it is common- 
place, the beard hides its defect, and 
gives a manly character. As a gen- 
eral rule, I think the male bird looks 
well with his crest and feathers.” 

“And so do I,” said Fanny, warm- 
ly ; “ and yet I should not like Mr. 
Severne to have a beard. Don’t you 
think he is very handsome?” 

“He is something more,” said 
Rhoda. “He is beautiful. If he 
was dressed as a woman, the gentle- 
men would all run after him. I think 
his is the most perfect oval face I ever 
saw. ” 

“But you must not fall in love 
with him,” said Fanny. 

“I do not mean to,” said Rhoda. 
“ Falling in love is not my business : 
and if it was, I should not select Mr. 
Severne.” 

“Why not, pray?” inquired Zoe, 
haughtily. Her manner was so men- 
acing that Rhoda did not like to say 
too much just then. She felt her 
way. 

“I am a physiognomist,” said she, 
“and I don’t think he can be very 
truthful. He is old of his age, and 
there are premature marks under his 
eyes that reveal craft, and perhaps 
dissipation. These are hardly visible 
in the room, but they are in the open 
air, when you get the full light of day. 
To be sure, just now his face is mark- 
ed with care and anxiety ; that young 
man has a good deal on his mind.” 

Here the observer discovered that 


even this was a great deal too much. 
Zoe was displeased, and felt affronted 
by her remarks, though she did not 
condescend to notice them, so Rhoda 
broke off and said, “It is not fair of 
you, Miss Dover, to set me giving my 
opinion of people you must know bet- 
ter than I do. Oh, what a garden !” 
And she was off directly on a tour of 
inspection. “ Come along,” said she, 
“ and I will tell you their names and 
properties.” 

They could hardly keep up with 
her, she was so eager. The fruits did 
not interest her, but only the simples. 
She was downright learned in these, 
and found a surprising number. But 
the fact is, Mr. Lucas had a respect 
for his predecessors. What they had 
planted, he seldom uprooted — at least, 
he always left a specimen. Miss Gale 
approved his system highly, until she 
came to a row of green leaves like 
small horse-radish, which was plant- 
ed by the side of another row that re- 
ally was horse-radish.” 

“This is too bad, even for Islip,” 
said Miss Gale. “ Here is one of our 
deadliest poisons planted by the very 
side of an esculent herb, which it re- 
sembles. You don’t happen to have 
hired the devil for gardener at any 
time, do you ? Just fancy ! any cook 
might come out here for horse-radish, 
and gather this plant, and lay you all 
dead at your own table. It is the 
Aconitum of medicine, the Monk’s- 
hood or Wolf’s-bane of our ancestors. 
Call the gardener, please, and have 
every bit of it pulled up by the roots. 
None of your lives are safe while poi- 
sons and esculents are planted togeth- 
er like this.” 

And she would not budge till Zoe 
directed a gardener to dig up all the 
Aconite. A couple of them went to 
work and soon uprooted it. The gar- 
deners then asked if they should burn 
it. 

“Not for all the world,” said Miss 
Gale. “Make a bundle of it for me 
to take home. It is only poison in 
the hands of ignoramuses. It is most 


164 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


sovereign medicine. I shall make 
tinctures, and check many a sharp ill 
with it. Given in time, it cuts down 
fever wonderfully ; and when you 
check the fever, you check the dis- 
ease.” 

Soon after this Miss Gale said she 
had not come to stop ; she was on her 
way to Taddington to buy lint and 
German styptics, and many things 
useful in domestic surgery. “For,” 
said she, “the people at Hillstoke 
are relenting; at least, they run to 
me with their cut fingers and black 
eyes, though they won’t trust me with 
their sacred rheumatics. I must also 
supply myself with vermifuges till the 
well is dug, and so mitigate puerile 
puttiness and internal torments.” 

The other ladies were not sorry to 
get rid of an irrelevant zealot, who 
talked neither love nor dress, nor any 
thing that reaches the soul. 

So Zoe said, “What, going al- 
ready?” and having paid that tax to 
politeness, returned to the house with 
alacrity. 

But the doctrpss would not go with- 
out her Wolf’s-bane, Aconite ycleped. 

The irrelevant zealot being gone, 
the true business of the mind was re- 
sumed; and that is love- making, or 
novelists give us false pictures of life, 
and that is impossible. 

As the doctress drove from the front 
door, Lord Uxtnoor emerged from the 
library — a coincidence that made both 
girls smile ; he hoped Miss Vizard was 
not too tired to take another turn. 

“Oh no!” said Zoe: “are you, 
Fanny ?” 

At the first step they took, Severne 
came round an angle of the building 
and joined them. He had watched 
from the balcony of his bedroom. 

Both men looked black at each oth- 
er, and made up to Zoe. She felt un- 
comfortable, and hardly knew what to 
do. However, she would not seem to 
observe, and was polite, but a little 
stiff, to both. 

However, at last Severne, having as- 
serted his rights, as he thought, gave 


way, but not without a sufficient mo- 
tive, as may be gathered from his first 
word to Fanny. 

“ My dear friend, for Heaven’s sake, 
what is the matter? She is angry 
with me about something. What is 
it ? has she told you ?” 

“ Not a word. But I see she is in 
a fury with you ; and really it is too 
ridiculous. You told a fib ; that is the 
mighty matter, I do believe. No, it 
isn’t, for you have told her a hundred, 
no doubt, and she liked you all the 
better; but this time you have been 
naughty enough to be found out, and 
she is romantic, and thinks Lor lover 
ought to be the soul of truth." 

“ Well, and so he ought,” yaid Ned. 

“ He isn’t, then and F*nny burst 
out laughing so loud that Zoe turned 
round and enveloped them both in one 
haughty glance, as the exaggerating 
Gaul would say. 

“La! there was a look for you!” 
said Fanny, pertly : “ as if I cared for 
her black brows.” 

“I do, though: pray remember 
that. ” 

“Then tell no more fibs. Such a 
fuss about nothing! What is a fib?” 
and she turned up her little nose very 
contemptuously at all such trivial souls 
as minded a little mendacity. 

Indeed, she disclaimed the impor* 
tance of veracity so imperiously that 
Severne was betrayed into saying, 
“ Well, not much, between you and 
me ; and I’ll be bound I can explain 
it.” 

“Explain it to me, then.” 

“Well, but I don’t know — ” 

“ Which of your fibs it was.” 

Another silver burst of laughter. 
But Zoe only vouchsafed a slightly 
contemptuous movement of her shoul- 
ders. 

“ Well, no,” said Severne, half 
laughing himself at the sprightly jade’s 
smartness. 

“ Well, then, that friend of yours 
that called at luncheon.” 

Severne turned grave directly. 

“ Yes,” said he. 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


165 


“You said he was your lawyer, and 
came about a lease.” 

“So he did.” 

“And his name was Jackson.” 

“ So it was.” 

“This won’t do. You mustn’t fib 
to me! Tt was Poikilus, a Secret In- 
quiry ; and they all kno.w it ; now tell 
me, without a fib — if you can — what 
ever did you want with Poikilus ?” 

Severne looked aghast. He falter- 
ed out, “Why, how could they know?” 

“Whv, he advertises, stupid! and 
Lord Uxmoor and Harrington had 
seen it. Gentlemen read advertise- 
ments. That is one of their peculiar- 
ities.” 

“Of course he advertises: that is 
not what I mean. I did not drop his 
card, did I ? No : I am sure I pock- 
eted it directly. What mischief-mak- 
ing villain told them it was Poikilus ?” 

Fanny colored a little, but said, has- 
tily, “Ah, that I could not tell you.” 

“The footman, perhaps ?” 

“I should not wonder.” (What is 
a fib?) 

“ Curse him !” 

“Oh, don’t swear at the servants; 
that is bad taste.” 

“Not when he has ruined me?” 

“Ruined you? — nonsense! Make 
up some other fib, and excuse the 
first.” 

“I can’t. I don’t know what to do; 
and before my rival, too ! This ac- 
counts for the air of triumph he has 
worn ever since, and her glances of 
scorn and pity. She is an angel, and 
I have lost her. ” 

“ Stuff and nonsense!” said Fanny 
Dover. “Be a man, and tell me the 
truth.” 

“ Well, I will,” said he ; “for I am 
in despair. It is all that cursed mon- 
ey at Homburg. I could v not clear 
my estate without it. I dare not go 
for it. She forbade me ; and indeed 
I can’t bear to leave her for any thing ; 
so I employed Poikilus to try and 
learn whether that lady has the mon- 
ey still, and whether she means to rob 
me of it or not.” 


Fanny Dover reflected a ©aoment, 
then delivered herseif thus: “You 
were wrong to tell a fib about it. 
What you must do now — brazen it 
out. Tell her you love her, but have 
got your pride, and will not come into 
her family a pauper. Defy her, to be 
sure ; we like to be defied now and 
then, when we are fond of the fellow.” 

“I will do it, ’’said he: “but she 
shuns me. I can’t get a word with 
her. ” 

Fanny said she would try and man- 
age that for him ; and as the rest of 
their talk might not interest the read- 
er, and certainly would not edify him, 
I pass on to the fact that she did, that 
very afternoon, go into Zoe’s room, 
and tell her Severne was very unhap- 
py : he had told a fib ; but it was not 
intended to deceive her, and he wished 
to explain the whole tiling. 

“Did he explain it to you?’’ asked 
Zoe, rather sharply. 

“ No , but he said enough to make 
me think you are using him very hard- 
ly. To be sure, you have another 
string to your bow.” 

“ Oh, that is the interpretation you 
put.” 

“ It is the true one. Do you think 
you can make me believe you would 
have shied him so long if Lord Ux- 
moor had not been in the house ?” 

Zoe bridled, but made no reply, and 
Fanny went to her own room, laugh- 
ing. 

Zoe was much disturbed. She se- 
cretly longed to hear Severne justify 
himself. She could not forgive a lie, 
nor esteem a liar. She was one of 
those who could pardon certain things 
in a woman she would not forgive in 
a man. Under a calm exterior, she 
had suffered a noble distress ; but her 
pride would not let her show’ it. Yet 
now that he had appealed to her for a 
hearing, and Fanny knew he had ap- 
pealed, she began to falter. 

Still Fanny was not altogether 
wrong : the presence of a man inca- 
pable of a falsehood, and that man 
devoted to her, was a little damaging 


166 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


to Severne, though not so much as 
Miss Artful thought. 

However, this very afternoon Lord 
Uxmoor had told her he must leave 
Vizard Court to-morrow morning. 

So Zoe said to herself, “ I need not 
make opportunities ; after to-morrow 
he will find plenty.” 

She had an instinctive fear he would 
tell more falsehoods to cover those 
he had told ; and then she should 
despise him, and they would both be 
miserable ; for she felt for a moment 
a horrible dread that she might both 
love and despise the same person, if 
it was Edward Severne. 

There were several people to dinner, 
and, as hostess, she managed not to 
think too much of either of her ad- 
mirers. 

However, a stolen glance showed 
her they were both out of spirits. 

She felt sorry. Her nature was very 
pitiful. She asked herself was it her 
fault, and did not quite acquit herself. 
Perhaps she ought to have been more 
open, and declared her sentiments. 
Yet would that have been modest in 
a lady who was not formally engaged ? 
She was puzzled. She had no expe- 
rience to guide her : only her high 
breeding and her virginal instincts. 

She was glad when the night ended. 

She caught herself wishing the next 
day was gone too. 

When she retired, Uxmoor was al- 
ready gone, and Severne opened the 
door to her. He fixed his eyes on 
her so imploringly, it made her heart 
melt; but she only blushed high, and 
went away sad and silent. 

As her maid was undressing her 
she caught sight of a letter on her 
table. “ What is that?” said she. 

“It is a letter,” said Rosa, very 
demurely. 

Zoe divined that the girl had been 
asked to put it there. 

Her bosom heaved, but she would 
not encourage such proceedings, nor 
let Rosa see how eager she was to 
hear those very excuses she had 
evaded. 


But, for all that, Rosa knew she 
was going to read it, for she only had 
her gown taken off and a peignoir 
substituted, and her hair let down 
and brushed a little. Then she dis- 
missed Rosa, locked the door, and 
pounced on the letter. It lay on her 
table with the seal uppermost. She 
turned it round. It was not from 
him : was from Lord Uxmoor. 

She sat down and read it. 

“Dear Miss Vizard, — I have had 
no opportunities of telling you all I 
feel for you, without attracting an at- 
tention that might have been unpleas- 
ant to you ; but I am sure you must 
have seen that I admired you at first 
sight. That was admiration of your 
beauty and grace, though even then 
you showed me a gentle heart and a 
sympathy that made me grateful. But, 
now I have had the privilege of being 
under the same roof with you, it is 
admiration no longer — it is deep and 
ardent love ; and I see that my hap- 
piness depends on you. Will you 
confide your happiness to me? I 
don’t know that I could make you as 
proud and happy as 1 should be my- 
self ; but I should try very hard, out 
of gratitude as well as iove. We 
have also certain sentiments in com- 
mon. That would be one bond more. 

“But indeed I feel I can not make 
my love a good bargain to you, for 
you are peerless, and deserve a much 
better lot in every way than I can of- 
fer. I can only kneel to you and say, 
‘ Zoe Vizard, if your heart is your own 
to give, pray be my lover, my queen, 
my wife.’ 

“ Your faithful servant and de- 
voted admirer, Uxmoor.” 

“Poor fellow!” said Zoe, and her 
eyes filled. She sat quite quiet, with 
the letter open in her hand. 

She looked at it, and murmured, 
“ A pearl is offered me here : wealth, 
title, all that some women sigh for, 
and — what I value above all — a noble 
nature, a true heart, and a soul above 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


167 


all meanness. No; Uxmoor will never 
tell a falsehood. He could not.” 

She sighed deeply, and closed her 
eyes. All was still. The light was 
faint ; yet she closed her eyes,, like a 
true woman, to see the future clearer. 

Then, in the sober and deep calm, 
there seemed to be faint peeps of com- 
ing things : it appeared a troubled 
sea, and Uxmoor's strong hand stretch- 
ed out to rescue her. If she married 
him, she knew the worst — an honest 
man she esteemed, and had almost an 
affection for, but no love. 

As some have an impulse to fling 
themselves from a height, she had one 
to give herself to Uxmoor, quietly, ir- 
revocably, by three written words dis- 
patched that night. 

But it was only an impulse. If she 
had written it, she would have torn it 
up. 

Presently a light thrillpassed through 
her : she wore a sort of half-furtive, 
guilty took, and opened the window. 

Ay, there he stood in the moon- 
light, waiting to be heard. 

She did not start nor utter any ex- 
clamation. Somehow or other she 
almost knev> he was there before she 
opened the window. 

“Well?” said she, with a world of 
meaning. 

“ You grant me a hearing at last.” 

“I do. But it is no use. You 
can not explain away a falsehood.” 

“Of course not. I am here to 
confess that I told a falsehood. But 
it was not you I wished to deceive. 
I was going to explain the whole 
thing to you, and tell you all ; but 
there is no getting a word with you 
since that lord came.” 

“He had nothing to do with it. I 
should have been just as much shock- 
ed.” 

“ But it would only have been for 
five minutes. Zoe!” 

“Well?” 

“Just put yourself in my place. A 
detective, who ought to have written 
to me in reply to my note, surprises 
me with a call. I was ashamed that 


such a visitor should enter } r our broth- 
er’s house to see me. There sat my 
rival — an aristocrat. I was surprised 
into disowning the unwelcomed vis- 
itor, and calling him my solicitor.” 

Now if Zoe had been an Old Bailey 
counsel, she would have kept him to 
the point, reminded him that his vis- 
itor was unseen, and fixed a voluntary 
falsehood on him ; but she was not an 
experienced cross-examiner, and per- 
haps she was at heart as indignant at 
the detective as at the falsehood : so 
she missed her advantage, and said, 
indignantly, “And what business had 
you with a detective? Your having 
one at all, and then calling him your 
solicitor, makes one think all manner 
of things.” 

“I should have told you all about 
it that afternoon, only our intercourse 
is broken off to please a rival. Sup- 
pose I gave you a rival, and used you 
for her sake as you use me for his, 
what would you say ? That would 
be a worse infidelity than sending for 
a detective, would it not ?” 

Zoe replied, haughtily, “You have 
no right to say you have a rival ; how 
dare you ? Besides,” said she, a little 
ruefully, “it is you who are on your 
defense, not me.” 

“True; I forgot that. Recrimina- 
tion is not convenient, is it ?” 

“I can escape it by shutting the 
window,” said Zoe, coldly. 

“ Oh, don’t do that. Let me have 
the bliss of seeing you, and I will sub- 
mit to a good deal of injustice without 
a murmur.” 

“ The detective?” said Zoe, sternly. 

“I sent for him, and gave him his 
instructions, and he is gone for me to 
Homburg.” 

“ Ah ! I thought so. What for ?” 

“About my money. To try and 
find out whether they mean to keep 
it.” 

“ Would you really take it if they 
would give it you ?” 

“ Of course I would.” 

“ Yet you know my mind about it.” 

“I know you forbade me to go xoi 


168 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


it in person : and I obeyed you, did T 
not?” 

“Yes, you did — at the time.” 

“I do now. You object to my 
going in person to Homburg. You 
know I was once acquainted with that 
lady, and you feel about her a little 
of what I feel about Lord Uxmoor ; 
about a tenth part of what I feel, I 
suppose, and with not one- tenth so 
much reason. Well, I know what the 
pangs of jealousy are: I will never in- 
flict them on you, as you have on me. 
But I will have my money, whether 
you like or not.” 

Zoe looked amazed at being defied. 
It was new to her. She drew up, but 
said nothing. 

Severne went on: “And I will tell 
you why : because without money I 
can not have you. My circumstances 
have lately improved ; with mv mon- 
ey that lies in Homburg I can now 
clear my family estate of all incum- 
brance, and come to your brother for 
your hand. Oh, 1 shall be a very bad 
match even then, but I shall not be a 
pauper, nor a man in debt. I shall 
be one of your own class, as I was 
born — a small landed gentleman with 
an unencumbered estate.” 

“That is not the way to my affec- 
tion. I do not care for money.” 

“But other people do. Dear Zoe, 
you have plenty of pride yourself ; you 
must let me have a little. Deeply as 
I love you, I could not come to your 
brother and say, ‘ Give me your sis- 
ter, and maintain us both.’ No, Zoe, 
I can not ask your hand till I have 
cleared my estate ; and I can not clear 
it without that money. For once I 
must resist you, and take my chance. 
There is wealth and a title offered 
you. I won’t ask you to dismiss them 
and take a pauper. If you don’t like 
me to try for my own money, give 
your hand to Lord Uxmoor ; then I 
shall recall my detective, and let all 
go ; for poverty or wealth will matter 
nothing to me : I shall have lost the 
angel I love : and she once loved me.” 

He faltered, and the sad cadence 


of his voice melted her. She began 
to cry. He turned his head away 
and cried too. 

There was a silence. Zoe broke it 
first. 

“ Edward,” said she, softly. 

“Zoe!” 

“You need not defy me. I would 
not humiliate you for all the world. 
Will it comfort you to know that I 
have been very unhappy ever since 
you lowered yourself so? I will try 
and accept your explanation.” 

He clasped his hands with grati- 
tude. 

“Edward, will you grant me a fa- 
vor?” 

“ Can you ask?” 

“It is to have a little more confi- 
dence in one who — Now you must 
obey me implicitly, and perhaps we 
may both be happier to-morrow night 
than we are to-night. Directly after 
breakfast, take your hat and walk to 
Hillstoke. You can call on Miss 
Gale, if you like, and say something 
civil.” 

“What! go and leave you alone 
with Lord Uxmoor?” 

“Yes.” 

“Ah, Zoe, you know your power. 
Have a little mercy.” 

“ Perhaps I may have a great deal 
— if you obey me.” 

“ I will obey you.” 

“Then go to bed this minute.” 

She gave him a heavenly smile, and 
closed the window. 

Next morning, as soon as breakfast 
was over, Ned Severne said, “Any 
messages for Hillstoke? I am going 
to walk up there this morning.” 

“ Embrace my virago for me,” said 
Vizard. 

Severne begged to be excused. 

He hurried off, and Lord Uxmoor 
felt a certain relief. 

The Master of Arts asked himself 
what he could do to propitiate the 
female M.D. He went to the gar- 
dener and got him to cut a huge bou- 
quet, choice and fragrant, and he car- 


169 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


ried it all the way to Hillstoke. Miss 
Gale was at home. As he was in- 
troduced rather suddenly, she started 
and changed color, and *said, sharply, 
‘ ‘ What do you want ?” Never asked 
him to sit down, rude Thing ! 

He stood hanging his head like 
a culprit, and said, with well - feigned 
timidity, that he came, by desire of 
Miss Vizard, to inquire how she was 
getting on, and to hope the people 
were beginning to appreciate her. 

“Oh! that alters the case; any 
messenger from Miss Vizard is wel- 
come. Did she send me those flow- 
ers too? They are beautiful.” 

“No. I gathered them myself. I 
have always understood ladies loved 
flowers.” 

“It is only by report you know 
that, eh ? Let me add something to 
your information : a good deal de- 
pends on the giver ; and you may 
fling these out of the window.” She 
tossed them to him. 

The Master of Arts gave an hum- 
ble, patient sigh, and threw the flow- 
ers out of the window, which was 
open. He then sunk into a chair, and 
hid his face in his hands. 

Miss Gale colored, and bit her lip. 
She did not think he would have done 
that, and it vexed her economical soul. 
She cast a piercing glance at him, 
then resumed her studies, and ignored 
his presence. 

But his patience exhausted hers. 
He sat there twenty minutes, at least, 
in a state of collapse that bid fair to 
last forever. 

So presently she looked up, and 
affected to start. “What! are you 
there still ?” said she. 

“Yes,” said he; “you did not dis- 
miss me ; only my poor flowers.” 

“Well,” said she, apologetically, 
“the truth is, I'm not strong enough 
to dismiss you by the same road.” 

“It is not necessary. You have 
only ro say, ‘ Go. ’ ” 

“Oh, that would be rude. Could 
not you go without being told right 
out?” 


“No, I could not. Miss Gale, I 
can’t account for it, but there is some 
strange attraction. You hate me, and 
I fear you, yet I could follow you 
about like a dog. Let me sit here a 
little longer and see you work.” 

Miss Gale leaned her head upon 
her hand, and contemplated him at 
great length. Finally she adopted a 
cat-like course. “No,” said she, at 
last; “I am going my rounds: you 
can come with me, if I am so attract- 
ive.” 

He said he should be proud, and 
she put on her hat in thirty seconds. 

They walked together in silence. 
He felt as if he were promenading a 
tiger-cat, that might stop any mo- 
ment to fall upon him. 

She walked him into a cottage: 
there was a little dead wood burning 
on that portion of the brick floor call- 
ed the hearth. A pale old man sat 
close to the fire, in a wooden arm- 
chair. She felt his pulse, and wrote 
him a prescription. 

“ To Mr. Vizard’s housekeeper, Viz- 
ard Court : 

“ Please give the bearer two pounds 
of good roast beef, or mutton, not salt- 
ed, and one pint port-wine. 

“ Rhoda Gale, M.D.” 

“ Here, Jenny,” she said to a sharp 
little girl, the man’s grandniece, “take 
this down to Vizard Court, and if 
the housekeeper objects, go to the 
front-door and demand in my name 
to see the squire or Miss Vizard, and 
give them the paper. Don’t you give 
it up without the meat. Take this 
basket on your arm.” 

Then she walked out of the cottage, 
and Seveme followed her: he vent- 
ured to say that was a novel prescrip- 
tion. 

She explained. “Physicians are 
obliged to send the rich to the chem- 
ist, or else the fools would think they 
were slighted. But we need not be 
so nice with the poor; we can pre- 
scribe to do them good. When you 


8 


170 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


inflicted your company on me, I was 
sketching out a treatise, to be entitled, 

‘ Cure of Disorders by Esculents. ’ That 
old man is nearly exsanguis. There 
is not a drug in creation that could 
do him an atom of good. Nourishing 
food may. If not, why, he is booked 
for the long journey. Well, he has 
had his innings. He is fourscore. 
Do you think you will ever see four- 
score — you and your vices ?” 

“Oh no. But I think you will; 
and I hope so ; for you go about do- 
ing good.” 

“And some people one could name 
go about doing mischief?” 

Severne made no reply. 

Soon after they discovered a little 
group, principally women and chil- 
dren. These were inspecting some- 
thing on the ground, and chattering 
excitedly. The words of dire import, 
“ She have possessed him with a dev- 
il,” struck their ear. But soon they 
caught sight of Miss Gale, and were 
dead silent. She said, “What is the 
matter ? Oh, I see, the vermifuge has 
acted.” 

It was so : a putty-laced boy had 
been unable to eat his breakfast ; had 
suffered malaise for hours afterward, 
and at last had been seized with a sort 
of dry retching, and had restored to 
the world they so adorn a number of 
amphibia, which now wriggled in a 
heap, and no doubt bitterly regretted 
the reckless impatience with which 
they had fled from an unpleasant med- 
icine to a cold-hearted world. 

“Well, good people,” said Miss 
Gale, “what are you making a fuss 
about ? Are they better in the boy or 
out of him ?” 

The women could not find their can- 
dor at a moment’s notice, but old Giles 
replied, heartily, “ Why, hout! better 
an empty house than a bad tenant.” 

“That is true,” said half a dozen 
voices at once. They could resist 
common sense in its liquid form, but 
not when solidified into a proverb. 

“Catch me the boy,” said Miss 
Gale, severely. 


Habitual culpability destroys self- 
confidence ; so the boy suspected him- 
self of crime, and instantly took to 
flight. His companions loved hunt- 
ing; so three swifter boys followed 
him with a cheerful yell, secured him, 
and brought him up for sentence. 

“ Don’t be frightened, Jacob,” said 
the doctress. “ I only want to know 
whether you feel better or worse.” 

His mother put in her word : “ He 
was ever so bad all the morning.” 

“Hold your jaw,” said old Giles, 
“and let the boy tell his own tale.” 

“Well, then,” said Jacob, “I was 
mortal bad, but now I do feel like a 
feather; wust on’t is, I be so blessed 
hungry now. Dall’d if I couldn’t eat 
the devil — stuffed with thunder and 
lightning.” 

“I’ll prescribe accordingly,” said 
Miss Gale, and wrote in pencil an or- 
der on a beefsteak-pie they had sent 
her from the Court. 

The boy’s companions put their 
heads together over this order, and of- 
fered their services to escort him. 

“ No, thank you,” said the doctress. 
“ He will go alone, you young monk- 
eys. Your turn will come.” 

Then she proceeded on her rounds, 
with Mr. Severne at her heels, until 
it was past one o’clock. 

Then she turned round and faced 
him. “ We will part here,” said she, 
“and I will explain my conduct to 
you, as you seem in the dark. I have 
been co-operating with Miss Vizard 
all this time. I reckon she sent you 
out of the way to give Lord Uxmoor 
his opportunity, so I have detained 
you. While yon have been studying 
medicine, he has been popping the 
question, of course. Good - bye, Mr. 
Villain.” 

Her words went through the man 
like cold steel. It was one woman 
reading another. He turned very 
white, and put his hand to his heart. 
But he recovered himself, and said, 
“If she prefers another to me, I must 
submit. It is not my absence for a 
few hours that will make the differ- 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


ence. You can not make me regret 
the hours I have passed in your com- 
pany. Good-bye,” and he seemed to 
leave her very reluctantly. 

“One word,” said she, softening a 
little. “ I’m not proof against your 
charm. Unless I see Zoe Vizard in 
danger, you have nothing to fear from 
me. But I love her , you understand.” 

He returned to her directly, and 
said, in most earnest, supplicating 
tones, “ But will you ever forgive 
me ?” 

“I will try.” 

And so they parted. 

He went home at a great rate ; for 
Miss Gale’s insinuations had raised 
some fear in his breast. 

Meantime this is what had really 
passed between Zoe and Lord Ux- 
moor. Vizard went to his study, and 
Fanny retired at a signal from Zoe. 
She rose, but did not go ; she walked 
slowly toward the window ; Uxmoor 
joined her : for he saw he was to have 
his answer from her mouth. 

Her bosom heaved a little, and her 
cheeks flushed. “Lord Uxmoor,” she 
said, “you have done me the great- 
est honor any man can pay a woman, 
and from you it is indeed an honor. 
I could not write such an answer as 
I could wish ; and, besides, I wish to 
spare you all the mortification I can.” 

“Ah !” said Uxmoor, piteously. 

“ You are worthy of any lady’s love . 
but I have only my esteem to give you, 
and that was given long ago.” 

Uxmoor, who had been gradually 
turning very white, faltered, “I had 
my fears. Good-bye.” 

She gave him her hand. He put it 
respectfully to his lips : then turned 
and left her, sick at heart, but too 
brave to let it be seen. He preferred 
her esteem to her pity. 

By this means he got both. She 
put her handkerchief to her eyes with- 
out disguise. But he only turned at 
the door to say, in a pretty firm voice, 
“ God bless you !” 

In less than an hour he drove his 
team from the dooi, sitting heart- 


171 

broken and desolate, but firm and un- 
flinching as a rock. 

So then, on his return from Hill- 
stoke, Severne found them all at 
luncheon except Uxmoor. He de- 
tailed his visit to Miss Gale, and, 
while he talked, observed. Zoe was 
beaming with love and kindness. He 
felt sure she had not deceived him. 
He learned, by merely listening, that 
Lord Uxmoor was gone, and he ex- 
ulted inwardly. 

After luncheon, Elysium. He walk- 
ed with the two girls, and Fanny lag- 
ged behind ; and Zoe proved herself 
no coquette. A coquette would have 
been a little cross, and shown him she 
had made a sacrifice. Not so Zoe 
Vizard. She never told him, nor 
even Fanny, she had refused Lord 
Uxmoor. She esteemed the great sac- 
rifice she had made for him as a little 
one, and so loved him a little more 
that he had cost her an earl’s coronet 
and a large fortune. 

The party resumed their habits that 
Uxmoor had interrupted, and no 
warning voice was raised. 

The boring commenced at Hill- 
stoke, and Doctress Gale hovered over 
the work. The various strata and 
their fossil deposits were an endless 
study, and kept her microscope em- 
ployed. With this, and her treatise 
on “ Cure by Esculents,” she was so 
employed that she did not visit the 
Court for some days : then came an 
invitation from Lord Uxmoor to stay 
a week with him, and inspect his vil- 
lage. She accepted it, and drove her- 
self in the bailiff’s gig. all alone. She 
found her host attending to his duties, 
but dejected ; so then she suspected, 
and turned the conversation to Zoe 
Vizard, and soon satisfied herself he 
had no hopes in that quarter. Yet 
he spoke of her with undisguised and 
tender admiration. Then she said to 
herself, “ This is a man, and he shall 
have her. ” 

She sat down and wrote a letter to 
Vizard, telling him all she knew, and 
what she thought, viz., that another 


172 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


woman, and a respectable one, had a 
claim on Mr. Severne, which ought to 
be closely inquired into, and the lady's 
version heard. “Think of it,” said 
she. “ He disowned the woman who 
had saved his life, he was so afraid 
I should tell Miss Vizard under what 
circumstances I first saw him.” 

She folded and addressed the letter. 

But having relieved her mind in 
some degree by this, she asked her- 
self whether it would not be kinder to 
all parties to try and save Zoe without 
an exposure. Probably Severne ben- 
efited by his grace and his disarming 
qualities ; for her ultimate resolution 
was to give him a chance, offer him 
an alternative : he must either quietly 
retire, or be openly exposed. 

So then she put the letter in her 
desk, made out her visit, of which no 
further particulars can be given at 
present, returned home, and walked 
down to the Court next morning to 
have it out with Edward Severne. 

But, unfortunately, from the very 
day she offered him terms up at Hill- 
stoke, the tide began to run in Sev- 
erne’s favor with great rapidity. 

A letter came from the detective. 
Severne received it at breakfast, and 
laid it before Zoe, which had a favor- 
able effect on her mind to begin. 

Poikilus reported that the money 
was in good hands. He had seen the 
lady. She made no secret of the 
thing — the sum was £4900, and she 
said half belonged to her and half to 
a gentleman. She did not know 
him, but her agent, Ashmead, did. 
Poikilus added that he had asked her 
would she honor that gentleman’s 
draft? She had replied she should be 
afraid to do that ; but Mr. Ashmead 
should hand it to him on demand. 
Poikilus summed up that the lady was 
evidently respectable, and the whole 
thing square. 

Severne posted this letter to his 
cousin, under cover, to show him he 
was really going to clear his estate, 
but begged him to return it immedi- 


ately and lend him £50. The accom-. 
modating cousin sent him £50, to aid 
him in wooing his heiress. He bought 
her a hoop ring, apologized for its 
small value, and expressed his regret 
that all he could offer her was on as 
small a scale, except his love. 

She blushed, and smiled on him, 
like heaven opening. “Small and 
great, I take them,” said she; and 
her lovely head rested on his shoulder. 

They were engaged. 

From that hour he could command 
a tete-a-tete with her whenever he 
chose, and his infernal passion began 
to suggest all manner of wild, wicked, 
and unreasonable hopes. 

Meantime there was no stopping. 
He soon found he must speak serious- 
ly to Vizard. He went into his study 
and began to open the subject.. Viz- 
ard stopped him. “Fetch the other 
culprit,” said he ; and when Zoe came, 
blushing, he said, “Now I am going 
to make shorter work of this than you 
have done. Zoe has ten thousand 
pounds. What have you got?” 

“Only a small estate, worth eight 
thousand pounds, that I hope to clear 
of all incumbrances, if I can get my 
money.” 

* ‘ Fond of each other ? Well, don’t 
strike me dead with your eyes. I 
have watched you, and I own a pret- 
tier pair of turtle-doves I never saw. 
Well, you have got love and I have 
got money. I’ll take care of you both. 
But you must live with me. I prom- 
ise never to marry.” 

This brought Zoe round his neck, 
with tears and kisses of pure affection. 
He returned them, and parted her hair 
paternally. 

“This is a beautiful world, isn’t 
it?” said he, with more tenderness 
than cynicism this time. 

“Ah, that it is!” cried Zoe, ear- 
nestly. “But I can’t have you say 
you will never be as happy as I am. 
There are true hearts in this heavenly 
world ; for I have found one.” 

“ I have not, and don’t mean to 
try again. I am going in for the 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


173 


paternal now. You two are my chil- 
dren. 1 have a talisman to keep me 
from marrying. I’ll show it you.” 
He drew a photograph from his draw- 
er, set round with gold and pearls. 
He showed it them suddenly. They 
both started. A fine photograph of 
Ina Klosking. She was dressed as 
plainly as at the gambling- table, but 
without a bonnet, and only one rose 
in her hair. Her noble forehead was 
shown, and her face, a model of intel- 
ligence, womanliness, and serene dig- 
nity. 

He gazed at it, and they at him 
and it. 

He kissed it. “ Here is my Fate,” 
said he. “Now mark the ingenuity 
of a parent. I keep out of my Fate’s 
way. But I use her to keep off any 
other little Fates that may be about. 
No other humbug can ever catch me 
while I have such a noble humbug as 
this to contemplate. Ah ! and here 
she is as Siebel. What a goddess! 
Just look at her. Adorable! There, 
this shall stand upon my table, and 
the other shall be hung in my bed- 
room. Then, my dear Zoe, you will 
be safe from a step-mother. For I 
am your father now. Please under- 
stand that.” 

This brought poor Zoe round his 
neck again with such an effusion that 
at last he handed her to Severne, and 
he led her from the room, quite over- 
come, and, to avoid all conversation 
about what had just passed, gave her 
over to Fanny, while he retired to 
compose himself. 

By dinner-time he was as happy 
as a prince again, and relieved of all 
compunction. 

He heard afterward from Fanny 
that Zoe and she had discussed the 
incident and Vizard’s infatuation, 
Fanny being especially wroth at Viz- 
ard's abuse of pearls; but she told 
him she had advised Zoe not to men- 
tion that lady’s name, but let her die 
out. 

And, in point of fact, Zoe did avoid 
the subject. 


There came an eventful day. Viz- 
ard got a letter, at breakfast, from his 
bankers, that made him stare, and 
then knit his brows. It was about 
Edward Severne’s acceptances. He 
said nothing, but ordered his horse 
and rode into Taddington. 

The day was keen but sunny, and, 
seeing him afoot so early, Zoe said 
she should like a drive before lunch- 
eon. She would show Severne and 
Fanny some ruins on Pagnell Hill. 
They could leave the trap at the vil- 
lage inn and walk up the hill. Fan- 
ny begged off, and Severne was very 
glad. The prospect of a long walk 
up a hill with Zoe, and then a day 
spent in utter seclusion with her, fired 
his imagination and made his heart 
beat. Here was one of the opportu- 
nities he had long sighed for of mak- 
ing passionate love to innocence and 
inexperience. 

Zoe herself was eager for the drive, 
and came down, followed by Rosa 
with some wraps, and waited in the 
morning -room for the dog-cart. It 
was behind time for once, because the 
careful coachman had insisted on the 
axle being oiled. At last the sound 
of wheels was heard. A carriage 
drew up at the door. 

“Tell Mr. Severne,” said Zoe. 

“ He is in the dining-room, I think.” 

But it was not the dog-cart. 

A vigilant footman came hastily 
out and opened the hall door. A 
lady was on the steps, and spoke to 
him, but, in speaking, she caught 
sight of Zoe in the hall. She instant- 
ly slipped pass the man and stood 
within the great door. 

“ Miss Vizard ?” said she. 

Zoe took a step toward her and 
said, with astonishment, “Mademoi-, 
selle Klosking!” 

The ladies looked at each other, 
and Zoe saw something strange was 
coming, for the Klosking was very 
pale, yet firm, and fixed her eyes upon 
her as if there was nothing else in 
sight. 

“You haveavisitor — Mr. Severne?” 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


174 

“ Yes,” said Zoe, drawing up. 

“Can I speak with him?” 

“ He will answer for himself. Ed- 
ward !” 

At her call Severne came out hasti- 
ly behind Ina Klosking. 

She turned, and they faced each 
other. 

“Ah!” she cried ; and in spite of 
all, there was more of joy than any 
other passion in the exclamation. 

Not so he. He uttered a scream 
of dismay, and staggered, white as a 
ghost, but still glared at Ina Klosking. 

Zoe’s voice fell on him like a clap 
of thunder : ‘ ‘ What ! — Edward ! — 
Mr. Severne ! — Has this lady still any 
right—” 

“No, none whatever!” he cried; 
“ it is all past and gone.” 

“What is past?” said Ina Klos- 
king, grandly. “Are you out of your 
senses ?” 

Then she was close to him in a mo- 
ment, by one grand movement, and 
took him by both lapels of his coat, 
and held him firmly. “Speak before 
this lady,” she cried. “ Have — I — no 
— rights — over you?” and her voice 
was majestic, and her Danish eyes 
gleamed lightning. 

The wretch’s knees gave way a mo- 
ment, and he shook in her hands. 
Then, suddenly, he turned wild. 
“Fiend! you have ruined me!” he 
yelled ; and then, with his natural 
strength, which was great, and the 
superhuman power of mad excite- 
ment, he whirled her right round and 
flung her from him, and dashed out 
of the door, uttering cries of rage and 
despair. 

The unfortunate h-dy, thus taken 
by surprise, fell heavily, and, by cruel 
ill luck, struck her temple, in falling, 
against the sharp corner of a marble 
table. It gashed her forehead fear- 
fully, and she lay senseless, with the 
blood spurting in jets from her white 
temple. 

Zoe screamed violently, and the hall 
and the hall staircase seemed to fill 
by magic. 


In the terror and confusion, Har- 
rington Vizard strode into the hall, 
from Taddington. “What is the 
matter?” he cried. “A woman kill- 
ed?” 

Some one cried out she had fallen. 

“Water, fools — a sponge — don’t 
stand gaping!” and he flung himself 
on his knees, and raised the woman's 
head from the floor. One eager look 
into her white face — one wild cry — 
“Great God! it is — ” He had rec- 
ognized her. 


CHAPTER XX. 

It was piteous to see and hear. 
The blood would not stop ; it spurt- 
ed no longer, but it flowed alarming- 
ly. Vizard sent Harris off in his 
own fly for a doctor, to save time. 
He called for ice. He cried out in 
agony to his servants, “Can none of 
you think of any thing ? There — 
that hat. Here, you women ; tear 
me the nap off with your fingers. 
My God ! what is to be done ? *She’U 
bleed to death ! And he held her to 
his breast, and almost moaned with 
pity over her, as he pressed the cold 
sponge to her wound — in vain ; for 
still the red blood would flow. 

Wheels ground the gravel. Serv- 
ants flew to the door, crying, “The 
doctor! the doctor!” 

As if he could have been fetched 
in five minutes from three miles off. 

Yet it was a doctor. Harris had 
met Miss Gale walking quietly down 
from Hillstoke. He had told her in 
a few hurried words, and brought her 
as fast as the horses could go. 

She glided in swiftly, keen, but 
self-possessed, and took it all in di- 
rectly. 

Vizard saw her, and cried, “Ah! 
Help ! — she is bleeding to death !” 

“She shall not,” said Rhoda. 
Then to one footman, “Bring afoot- 
stool, you;" to another, “You bring 
me a cork;” to Vizard, “ You hold 


THE MEETING. 1U 












































































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* 







































































* 



A WOMAN-HATER. 


175 


her toward me so. Now sponge the 
wound.” 

This done, she pinched the lips of 
the wound together with her neat, 
strong fingers. ‘‘See what I do,” 
she said to Vizard. “You will have 
to do it, while I — Ah, the stool ! 
Now lay her head on that ; the other 
side, man. Now, sir, compress the 
wound as I did, vigorously. Hold 
the eork, you , till I want it.” 

She took out of her pocket some 
adhesive plaster, and flakes of some 
strong styptic, and a piece of elastic. 
“Now,” said she to Vizard, “give 
me a little opening in the middle to 
plaster these strips across the wound.” 
He did so. Then in a moment she 
passed the elastic under the sufferer’s 
head, drew it over with the styptic 
between her finger and thumb, and 
crack ! the styptic was tight on the 
compressed wound. She forced in 
more styptic, increasing the pressure, 
then she whipped out a sort of surgic- 
al housewife, and with some cutting 
instrument reduced the cork, then 
cut it convex, and fastened it on the 
styptic by another elastic. There 
was no flutter, yet it was all done in 
fifty seconds. 

“There,” said she, “ she will bleed 
no more, to speak of. Now seat her 
upright. Why! I have seen her be- 
fore. This is — sir, you can send the 
men away. ” 

“Yes; and, Harris, pack up Mr. 
Severne’s things, and bring them 
down here this moment.” 

The male servants retired, the 
women held aloof. Fanny Dover 
came forward, pale and trembling, 
and helped to place Ina Klosking in 
the hall porter’s chair. She was in- 
sensible still, but moaned faintly. 

Her moans were echoed : all eyes 
turned. It was Zoe, seated apart, all 
bowed and broken — ghastly pale, and 
glaring straight before her. 

“ Poor girl! ” said Vizard. “We 
forgot her. It is her heart that bleeds. 
Where is the scoundrel, that I may 
kill him ?” and he rushed out at the 


door to look for him. The man’s life 
would not have been worth much if 
Squire Vizard could have found him 
then. 

But he soon came back to his wretch- 
ed home, and eyed the dismal scene, 
and the havoc one man had made — 
the marble floor all stained with blood 
— Ina Klosking supported in a chair, 
white, and faintly moaning — Zoe still 
crushed and glaring at vacancy, and 
Fanny sobbing round her with pity 
and terror ; for she knew there must 
be worse to come than this wild stu- 
por. 

“Take her to her room, Fanny 
dear,” said Vizard, in a hurried, fal- 
tering voice, “and don’t leave her. 
Rosa, help Miss Dover. Do not leave 
her alone, night nor day.” Then to 
Miss Gale, “She will live? Tell me 
she will live.” 

“I hope so,” said Rhoda Gale. 
“Oh, the blow will not kill her, not’ 
yet the loss of blood. But I fear 
there will be distress of mind added 
to the bodily shock. And such a no- 
ble face ! My own heart bleeds for 
her. Oh, sir, do not send her away 
to strangers ! Let me take her up to 
the farm. It is nursing she will need, 
and tact, when she comes to herself.” 

“Send her away to strangers!” 
cried Vizard. “ Never ! No. Not 
even to the farm. Here she received 
her wound ; here all that } r ou and 
I can do shall be done to save her. 
Ah, here’s Harris, with the villain’s 
things. Get the lady’s boxes out, 
and put Mr. Severne’s into the fly. 
Give the man two guineas, and let 
him leave them at the ‘Swan,’ in 
Taddington.” 

He then beckoned down the wom- 
en, and had Ina Klosking carried up- 
stairs to the very room Severne had 
occupied. 

He then convened the servants, 
and placed them formalty under Miss 
Gale’s orders, and one female servant 
having made a remark, he turned her 
out of the house, neck and crop, direct- 
ly with her month’s wages. The oth- 


176 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


ers had to help her pack, only half an 
hour being allowed for her exit. 

The house seemed all changed. 
Could this be Vizard Court? Dead 
gloom — hurried whispers — and every 
body walking softly, and scared — 
none knowing what might be the 
next calamity. 

Vizard felt sick at heart and help- 
less. He had done all he could, and 
was reduced to that condition women 
bear far better than men — he must 
wait, and hope, and fear. He walk- 
ed up and down the carpeted land- 
ing, racked with anxiety. 

At last there came a single scream 
of agony from Ina Klosking’s room. 

It made the strong man quake. 

He tapped softly at the door. 

Rhoda opened it. 

“What is it ?” he faltered. 

She replied, gravely, “Only what 
must be. She is beginning to realize 
what has befallen her. Don’t come 
bere. You can do no good. I will 
run down to you whenever I dare. 
Give me a nurse to help, this first 
night.” 

He went down and sent into the 
village for a woman who bore a great 
name for nursing. Then he wander- 
ed about disconsolate. 

The leaden hours passed. He went 
to dress, and discovered Ina Klos- 
king’s blood upon his clothes. It 
shocked him first, and then it melted 
him : he felt an inexpressible tender- 
ness at sight of it. The blood that 
had flowed in her veins seemed sacred 
to him. He folded that suit, and tied 
it up in a silk handkerchief, and lock- 
ed it away. 

In due course he sat down to din- 
ner — we are all such creatures of hab- 
it. There was every thing as usual, 
except the familiar faces. There was 
the glittering plate on the polished 
sideboard, the pyramid of flowers sur- 
rounded with fruits. There were 
even chairs at the table, for the serv- 
ants did not know he was to be quite 
alone. But he was. One delicate 
dish after another was brought him, 


and sent away untasted. Soon after 
dinner Rhoda Gale came down and 
told him her patient was in a preca- 
rious condition, and she feared fever 
and delirium. She begged him to 
send one servant up to the farm for 
certain medicaments she had there, 
and another to the chemist at Tad- 
dington. These were dispatched on 
swift horses, and both were back in 
half an hour. 

By-and-by Fanny Dover came down 
to him, with red eyes, and brought 
him Zoe’s love. “ But,” said she, 
“don’t ask her to come down. She 
is ashamed to look any body in the 
face, poor girl.” 

“ Why ? what has she done ?” 

“ Oh, Harrington, she has made no 
secret of her affection ; and now, at 
sight of that woman, he has abandon- 
ed her.” 

“Tell her I love her more than 
I ever did, and respect her more. 
Where is her pride ?” 

“Pride! she is full of it; and it 
will help her — by-and-by. But she 
has a bitter time to go through first. 
You don’t know how she loves him.” 

“What! love him still, after what 
he has done ?” 

“Yes! She interprets it this way 
and that. She can not bear to believe 
another woman has any real right to 
separate them.” 

“Separate them! The scoundrel 
knocked her down for loving him 
still, and fled from them both. Was 
ever guilt more clear? If she doubts 
that he is a villain, tell her from me 
he is a forger, and has given me bills 
with false names on them. The bank- 
ers gave me notice to-day, and I was 
coming home to order him out of the 
house when this miserable business 
happened.” 

“A forger! is it possible ?” said 
Fanny. “ But it is no use my telling 
her that sort of thing. If "he had 
committed murder, and was true to 
her, she would cling to him. She 
never knew till now how she loved 
him, nor I neither. She put him in 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


177 


Coventry for telling a lie ; but she 
was far more unhappy all the time 
than he was. There is nothing to do 
but to be kind to her, and let her hide 
her face. Don’t hurry her.” 

“Not I. God help her! If she 
has a wish, it shall be gratified. I 
am powerless. She is young. Sure- 
ly time will cure her of a villain, now 
he is detected.” 

Fanny said she hoped so. 

The truth is, Zoe had not opened 
her heart to Fanny. She clung to 
her, and writhed in her arms ; but 
she spoke little, and one broken sen- 
tence contradicted the other. But 
mental agony, like bodily, finds its 
vent, not in speech, the brain’s great 
interpreter, but in inarticulate cries, 
and moans, and sighs, that prove us 
animals even in the throes of mind. 
Zoe was in that cruel stage of suffer- 
ing. 

So passed that miserable day. 


CHAPTER XXI. 

Ina Klosking recovered her senses 
that evening, and asked Miss Gale 
where she was. Miss Gale told her 
she was in the house of a friend. 

“ What friend ?” 

“That,” said Miss Gale, “I will 
tell you by-and-by. You are in good 
hands, and I am your physician.” 

“I have heard your voice before,” 
said Ina, “ but I know not where; 
and it is so dark! Why is it so 
dark ?” 

“ Because too much light is not 
good for you. You have met with an 
accident.” 

“What accident, madam ?” 

“You fell and hurt your poor fore- 
head. See, I have bandaged it, and 
now you must let me wet the band- 
age — to keep your brow cool.” 

“Thank you, madam,” said Ina, 
in her own sweet but queenly way. 
“You are very good to me. I wish 
I could see your face more clearly. 

8 * 


I know your voice.” Then, after a 
silence, during which Miss Gale eyed 
her with anxiety, she said, like one 
groping her way to the truth, “I — 
fell — and — hurt — m v forehead ? — 
Ah!” 

Then it was she uttered the cry 
that made Vizard quake at the door, 
and shook for a moment even Rho- 
da’s nerves, though, as a rule, they 
were iron in a situation of this kind. 

It had all come back to Ina Klos- 
king. 

After that piteous cry she never 
said a word. She did nothing but 
think, and put her hand to her head. 

And soon after midnight she began 
to talk incoherently. 

The physician could only proceed 
by physical means. She attacked the 
coming fever at once, with the reme- 
dies of the day, and also with an in- 
fusion of monk’s -hood. That poi- 
son, promptly administered, did not 
deceive her. She obtained a slight 
perspiration, which was so much gain- 
ed in the battle. 

In the morning she got the patient 
shifted into another bed, and she slept 
a little after that. But soon she was 
awake, restless, and raving : still her 
character pervaded her delirium. No 
violence. Nothing any sore injured 
woman need be ashamed to have 
said : only it was all disconnected. 
One moment she was speaking to the 
leader of the orchestra, at another to 
Mr. Ashmead, at another, with divine 
tenderness, to her still faithful Sev- 
erne. And though not hurried, as 
usual in these cases, it was almost 
incessant and pitiable to hear, each 
observation was so wise and good ; 
yet, all being disconnected, the hearer 
could not but feel that a noble mind 
lay before him, overthrown and broken 
into fragments like some Attic col- 
umn. 

In the middle of this the handle 
was softly turned, and Zoe Vizard 
came in, pale and sombre. 

Long before this, she had said to 
Fanny, several times, “I ought to go 


178 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


and see her;” and Fanny had said, 
“ Of course you ought.” 

So now she came. She folded her 
arms and stood at the foot of the bed, 
and looked at her unhappy rival, un- 
happy as possible herself. 

What contrary feelings fought in 
that young breast ! Pity and hatred. 
She must hate the rival who had come 
between her and him she loved ; she 
must pity the woman who lay there, 
pale, wounded, and little likely to re- 
cover. 

And, with all this, a great desire to 
know whether this sufferer had any 
right to come and seize Edward Sev- 
erne by the arm, and so draw down 
calamity on both the women who 
loved him. 

She looked and listened, and Rho- 
da Gale thought it hard upon her pa- 
tient. 

But it was not in human nature the 
girl should do otherwise ; so Rhoda 
said nothing. 

What fell from Ina’s lips was not ot 
a kind to make Zoe more her friend. 

Her mind seemed now like a bird 
tied by a long silken thread. It made 
large excursions, but constantly came 
back to her love. Sometimes that 
love was happy, sometimes unhappy. 
Often she said “Edward!” in the ex- 
quisite tone of a loving woman ; and 
whenever she did, Zoe received it with 
a sort of shiver, as if a dagger, fine 
as a needle, had passed through her 
whole body. 

At last, after telling some tenor 
that he had sung F natural instead 
of F sharp, and praised somebody’s 
rendering of a song in “II Flauto Ma- 
gico,” and told Ash mead to make no 
more engagements for her at present, 
for she was going to Vizard Court, 
the poor soul paused a minute, and 
uttered a deep moan. 

“ Struck down by the very hand 
that was vowed to protect me /” said 
she. Then was silent again. Then 
began to cry, and sob, and wring her 
hands. 

Zoe put her hand to her heart, and 


moved feebly toward the door. How- 
ever, she stopped a moment to say, 
“ I am no use here. You would soon 
have me raving in the next bed. I 
will send Fanny.” Then she drew 
herself up. “ Miss Gale, every body 
here is at your command. Pray 
spare nothing you can think of to 
save — my brother s guest." 

There came out the bitter drop. 

When she had said that, she stalk- 
ed from the room like some red In- 
dian bearing a mortal arrow in him, 
but too proud to show it. 

But when she got to her own room 
she flung herself on her sofa, and 
writhed and sobbed in agony. 

Fanny Dover came in and found 
her so, and flew to her. 

But she ordered her out quite wild- 
ly. “No, no; go to Aer, like all the 
rest, and leave poor Zoe all alone. 
She is alone.” 

Then Fanny clung to her, and tried 
hard to comfort her. 

This young ladv now became very 
zealous and active. She divided her 
time between the two sufferers, and 
was indefatigable in their . service. 
When she was not supporting Zoe, 
she was always at Miss Gale’s elbow 
offering her services. “Do let me 
help you,” she said. “Do pray let 
me help. We are poor at home, and 
there is nothing I can not do. I’m 
worth any three servants.” 

She always helped shift the patient 
into a fresh bed, and that was done 
very often. She would run to the 
cook or the butler for any thing that 
was wanted in a hurry. She flung 
gentility and humbug to the winds. 
Then she dressed in ten minutes, and 
went and dined with Vizard, and 
made excuses for Zoe’s absence, to 
keep every thing smooth ; and finally 
she insisted on sitting up with Ina 
Klosking till three in the morning, 
and made Miss Gale go to bed in the 
room. “Paid nurses!” said she; 
“they are no use except to snore and 
drink the patient’s wine. You and I 
will watch her every moment of the 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


179 


night; and if I’m ever at a loss what 
to do, I will call you.” 

Miss Gale stared at her once, and 
then accepted this new phase of her 
character. 

The fever was hot while it lasted ; 
but it was so encountered with tonics, 
and port- wine, and strong beef-soup — 
not your rubbishy beef- tea — that in 
forty -eight hours it began to abate. 
Ina recognized Rlioda Gale as the 
lady who had saved Severne’s life at 
Montpellier, and wept long and si- 
lently upon her neck. In due course, 
Zoe, hearing there was a great change, 
came in again to look at her. She 
stood and eyed her. Soon Ina Klos- 
king caught sight of her, and stared 
at her. 

“You here ! ” said she. “ Ah ! you 
are Miss Yizard. I am in your 
house. I will get up and leave it;” 
and she made a feeble attempt to 
rise, but fell back, and the tears welled 
out of her eyes at her helplessness. 

Zoe was indignant, but for the mo- 
ment more shocked than any thing 
else. She moved away a little, and 
did not know what to say. 

“Let me look at you,” said the 
patient. “Ah! you are beautiful. 
When I saw you at the theatre, you 
fascinated me. How much more a 
man? I will resist no more. You 
are too beautiful to be resisted. Take 
him, and let me die.” 

“ I do her no good,” said Zoe, half 
sullenly, half trembling. 

“Indeed you do not,” said Rlioda, 
bluntly, and almost bitterly. She was 
all nurse. 

“I’ll come here no more,” said 
Zoe, sadly but sternly, and left the 
room. 

Then Ina turned to Miss Gale and 
said, patiently, “I hope I was not 
rude to that lady — who has broken 
my heart.” 

Fanny and Rhoda took each a hand, 
and told her she could not be rude to 
any body. 

“My friends,” said Ina, looking 
piteously to each in turn, “it is her 


house, you know, and she is very 
good to me now — after breaking my 
heart.” 

Then Fanny showed a deal of tact. 
“ Her house!” said she. “It is no 
more hers than mine. Why, this 
house belongs to a gentleman, and 
he is mad after music. He knows 
you very well, though you don’t know 
him, and he thinks you the first 6inger 
in Europe.” 

“You flatter me,” said Ina, sadly. 

“Well, he thinks so; and he is 
reckoned a very good judge. Ah! 
now I think of it, I will show you 
something, and then you will believe 
me.” 

She ran off to the library, snatched 
up I na’s picture set round with pearls, 
and came panting in with it. “There,” 
said she ; ‘ ‘ now you look at that ! ” 
and she put it before her eyes. “Now, 
who is that, if you please?” 

“ Oh ! It is Ina Klosking that 
was. Please bring me a glass.” 

The two ladies looked at each 
other. Miss Gale made a negative 
signal, and Fanny said, “By-and-by. 
This will do instead, for it is as like 
as two peas. Now ask yourself how 
this conies to be in the house, and set 
in pearls. Why, they are worth three 
hundred pounds. I assure you that 
the master of this house is fanatico 
per la musica ; heard you sing Siebel 
at Homburg — raved about you — want- 
ed to call on you. We had to drag 
him away from the place ; and he de- 
clares you are the first singer in the 
world ; and you can not doubt his 
sincerity, for here are the pearls.” 

Ina Klosking’s pale cheek colored, 
and then she opened her two arms 
wide, and put them round Fanny’s 
neck and kissed her. Her innocent 
vanity was gratified, and her gracious 
nature suggested gratitude to her who 
had brought her the compliment, in- 
stead of the usual ungrateful bump- 
tiousness praise elicits from vanity. 

Then Miss Gale put in her word — 
“When you met with this unfortunate 
accident, I was for taking you up to 


180 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


my house. It is three miles off ; but 
he would not hear of it. He said, 

‘ No ; here she got her wound, and 
here she must be cured.’ ” 

“So,” said Fanny, “pray set your 
mind at ease. My cousin Harrington 
is a very good soul, but rather arbitra- 
ry. If you want to leave this place, 
you must get thoroughly well and 
strong, for he will never let you go 
till you are.” 

Between these two ladies, clever 
and co-operating, Ina smiled, and 
seemed relieved ; but she was too 
weak to converse any more just then. 

Some hours afterward she beckoned 
Fanny to her, and said, “The master 
of the house — what is his name?” 

“ Harrington Vizard.” 

“ What ! — her father?” 

“ La, no ; only her half-brother.” 

“If he is so kind to me because I 
sing, why comes he not to see me? 
She has come.” 

Fanny smiled. “It is plain you 
are not an Englishwoman, though you 
speak it so beautifully. An English 
gentleman does not intrude into a 
lady’s room.” 

“ It is his room.” 

‘ ‘ He would say that while you oc- 
cupy it, it is yours, and not his.” 

“He awaits my invitation, then.” 

“I dare say he would come if you 
were to invite him, but certainly not 
without.” 

“I wish to see him who has been 
so kind to me, and so loves music ; 
but not to-day — I feel unable.” 

The next day she asked for a glass, 
and was distressed at her appearance. 
She begged for a cap. 

“What kind of cap ?” asked Fanny. 

“ One like that,” said she, pointing 
to a portrait on the wall. It was of 
a lady in a plain brown silk dress and 
a little white shawl, and a neat cap 
with a narrow lace border all round 
her face. 

This particular cap was out of date 
full sixty years ; but the house had a 
store-room of relics, and Fanny, with 
Vizard’s help, soon rummaged out a 


cap of the sort, with a narrow frill all 
round. 

Her hair was smoothed, a white 
silk band passed over the now closed 
wound, and the cap fitted on her. 
She looked pale, but angelic. 

Fanny went down to Vizard, and 
invited him to come and see Made- 
moiselle Klosking — by her desire. 
“But,” she added, “Miss Gale is 
very anxious lest you should get talk- 
ing of Severne. She says the fever 
and loss of blood have weakened her 
terribly ; and if we bring the fever on 
again, she can not answer for her life.” 

“ Has she spoken of him to you?” 

“Not once.” 

“Then why should she to me?” 

“Because you are a man, and she 
may think to get the truth out of you : 
she knows we shall only say what is 
for the best. She is very deep, and 
we don’t know her mind yet.” 

Vizard said he would be as guarded 
as he could ; but if they saw him go- 
ing wrong, they must send him away. 

“Oh, Miss Gale will do that, you 
may be sure,” said Fanny. 

Thus prepared, Vizard followed 
Fanny up the stairs to the sick-room. 

Either there is such a thing as love 
at first sight, or it is something more 
than first sight, when an observant 
man gazes at a woman for an hour 
in a blaze of light, and drinks in her 
looks, her walk, her voice, and all the 
outward signs of a beautiful soul ; for 
the stout cynic’s heart beat at entering 
that room as it had not beat for years. 
To be sure, he had not only seen her 
on the stage in all her glory, but had 
held her, pale and bleeding, to his 
manly breast, and his heart warmed 
to her all the more, and, indeed, fairly 
melted with tenderness. 

Fanny went in and announced him. 
He followed softly, and looked at her. 

Wealth can make even a sick-room 
pretty. The Klosking lay on snowy 
pillows whose glossy damask was 
edged with lace ; and upon her form 
was an eider-down quilt covered with 
. violet-colored satin, and her face was 


A WOMAN 

let in that sweet cap which hid her 
wound, and made her eloquent face 
less ghastlv. 

She turned to look at him, and he 
gazed at her in a way that spoke vol- 
umes. 

“A seat,” said she, softly. 

Fanny was for putting one close to 
her. 

“No,” said Miss Gale, “lower 
down ; then she need not turn her 
head.” 

So he sat down nearer her feet. 

“My good host,” said she, in her 
mellow voice, that retained its quality, 
but not its power, “I desire to thank 
you for yoijr goodness to a poor sing- 
er, struck down — by the hand that 
was bound to protect her.” 

Vizard faltered out that there was 
nothing to thank him for. He was 
proud to hnve her under his roof, 
though deeply grieved at the cause. 

She looked at him, and her two 
nurses looked at her and at each oth- 
er, as much as to say, • ‘ She is going 
upon dangerous ground.” 

They were right. But she had not 
the courage, or, perhaps, as most wom- 
en are a little cat-like in this, that they 
go away once or twice from the sub- 
ject nearest their heart before they 
turn and pounce on it, she must speak 
of other things first. Said she, “ But 
Tf I was unfortunate in that, I was fort- 
unate in this, that I fell into good 
hands. These ladies are sisters to 
me,” and she gave Miss Gale her 
hand, and kissed the other hand to 
Fanny, though she could scarcely lift 
it ; “ and I have a host who loves mu- 
sic, and overrates my poor ability.” 
Then, after a pause, “What have you 
heard me sing?” 

“ Siebel.” 

“Only Siebel! why, that is a poor 
little thing.” 

“So I thought, till I heard you 
sing it.” 

“ And, after Siebel, you bought my 
photograph.” 

“Instantly.” 

“And wasted pearls on it.” 


-HATER. 181 

“No, madam. I wasted it on 
pearls.” 

“If I were well, I should call that 
extravagant. But it is permitted to 
flatter the sick — it is kind. Me you 
overrate, I fear ; but you do well to 
honor music. Ay, I, who lie here 
wounded, and broken - hearted, do 
thank God for music. Our bodies 
are soon crushed, our loves decay or 
turn to hate, but art is immortal.” 

She could no longer roll this out in 
her grand contralto, but she could still 
raise her eyes with enthusiasm, and 
her pale face was illuminated. A 
grand soul shone through her, though 
she was pale, weak, and prostrate. 

They admired her in silence. 

After a while she resumed, and said, 
“If I live, I must live for my art 
alone. ” 

Miss Gale saw her approaching a 
dangerous topic, so she said, hastily, 
“ Don’t say if you live, please, because 
that is arranged. You have been out 
of danger this twenty-four hours, pro- 
vided you do not relapse ; and I must 
take care of that.” 

“My kind friend,” said Ina, “I 
shall not relapse ; only my weakness 
is pitiable. Sometimes I can scarce- 
ly forbear crying, I feel so weak. 
When shall I be stronger ?” 

“ You shall be a tittle stronger ev- 
ery three days. There are always ups 
and downs in convalescence.” 

“When shall I be strong enough 
to move ?” 

“Let me answer that question,” 
said Vizard. “ When you are strong 
enough to sing us Siebel’s great song. ” 

“There,” said Fanny Dover; 
“there is a mercenary host for you. 
He means to have a song out of you. 
Till then you are his prisoner.” 

“No, no, she is mine,” said Miss 
Gale; “and she sha’n’t go till she 
has sung me ‘ Hail, Columbia.’ None 
of your Italian trash for me.” 

Ina smiled, and said it was a fair 
condition, provided that “ Hail, Co- 
lumbia,” with which composition, un- 
fortunately, she was unacquainted, was 


182 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


not beyond her powers. “ I have oft- 
en sung for money,” said she; “but 
this time” — here she opened her 
grand arms and took Rhoda Gale to 
her bosom — “I shall sing for love.” 

“Now we have settled that,” said 
Vizard, “ my mind is more at ease, 
and I will retire.” 

“One moment,” said Ina, turning 
to him. Then, in a low and very 
meaning voice, “ There is something 
else." 

“No doubt there is plenty,” said 
Miss Gale, sharply ; “ and, by my au- 
thority, I postpone it all till you are 
stronger. Bid us good-bye for the 
present, Mr. Vizard.” 

“ 1 obey,” said he. “ But, mad- 
am, please remember I am always at 
your service. Send for me when you 
please, and the oftener the better for 
me.” 

“ Thank you, my kind host. Oblige 
me with your hand.” 

He gave her his hand. She took 
it, and put her lips to it with pure 
and gentle and seemly gratitude, and 
with no loss of dignity, though the act 
was humble. 

He turned his head away, to hide 
the emotion that act and the touch of 
her sweet lips caused him ; Miss Gale 
hurried him out of the room. 

“ You naughty patient,” said she; 
“you must do nothing to excite your- 
self.” 

“ Sweet physician, loving nurse, I 
am not excited.” 

Miss Gale felt her heart to see. 

“Gratitude does not excite,” said 
Ina. “It is too tame a feeling in the 
best of us.” 

“That is a fact,” said Miss Gale ; 
“so let us all be grateful, and avoid 
exciting topics. Think what I should 
feel if you had a relapse. Why, you 
would break my heart.” 

“Should I ?” 

“I really think you would, tough 
as it is. One gets so fond of an un- 
selfish patient. You can not think 
how rare they are, dear. You are a 
pearl. I can not afford to lose you.” 


“Then you shall not,” said Ina, 
firmly. “ Know that I, who seem so 
weak, am a woman of great resolu- 
tion. I will follow good counsel ; I 
will postpone all dangerous topics till 
I am stronger ; I will live. For I 
will not grieve the true friends calam- 
ity has raised me.” 

Of course Fanny told Zoe all about 
this interview. She listened gloom- 
ily ; and all she said was, “ Sisters 
do not go for much when a man is in 
love.” 

“ Do brothers, when a woman is?” 
said Fanny. 

“ I dare say they go for as much as 
they are worth.” 

“Zoe, that is not fair. Harring- 
ton is full of affection for you. But 
you will not go near him. Any oth- 
er man would be very angry. Do 
pray make an effort, and come down 
to dinner to-day.” 

“No, no. He has you and his 
Klosking. And I have my broken 
heart. I am alone ; and so I will be 
all alone.” 

She cried and sobbed, but she was 
obstinate, and Fanny could only let 
her have her own way in that. 

Another question was soon dis- 
posed of. When Fanny invited her 
into the sick-room, she said, haughti- 
ly, “ I go there no more. Cure her, 
and send her away — if Harrington 
will let her go. I dare say she is to 
be pitied.” 

“Of course she is. She is your 
fellow -victim, if you would only let 
yourself see it.” 

“ Unfortunately, instead of pitying 
her, I hate her. She has destroyed 
my happiness, and done herself no 
good. He does not love her, and 
never will.” 

Fanny found herself getting angry, 
so she said no more ; for she was de- 
termined nothing should make her 
quarrel with poor Zoe ; but after din- 
ner, being tete-a-tete with Vizard, she 
told him she was afraid Zoe could not 
see things as they were ; and she ask- 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


183 


ed him if he had any idea what had 
become of Severne. 

“Fled the country, I suppose.” 

“Are you sure he is not lurking 
about ?” 

“What for?” 

“To get a word with Zoe — alone.” 

“ He will not come near this. I 
will break every bone in his skin if he 
does.” 

“But he is so sly; he might hang 
about. ” 

“ What for ? She never goes out ; 
and if she did, have you so poor an 
opinion of her as to think she would 
speak to him?” 

“Oh no! and she would forbid 
him to speak to her. But he would 
be sure to persist; and he has such 
wonderful powers of explanation, and 
she is blinded by love, I think he 
would make her believe black was 
white, if he had a chance ; and if he 
is about, he will get a chance some 
day. She is doing the very worst 
thing she could — shutting herself up 
so. Any moment she will turn wild, 
and rush out reckless. She is in a 
dangerous state, you mark my words ; 
she is broken-hearted, and yet she is 
bitter against every body, except that 
young villain, and he is the only en- 
emy she has in the world. I don’t 
believe Mademoiselle Klosking ever 
wronged her, nor ever will. Appear- 
ances are against her; but she is a 
good woman, or I am a fool. Take 
my advice, Harrington, and be on 
your guard. If he had written a 
penitent letter to Mademoiselle Klos- 
king, that would be a different thing ; 
but he ignores her, and that frightens 
me for Zoe.” 

Harrington would not admit that 
Zoe needed any other safeguard 
against a detected scoundrel than her 
own sense of dignity. He consented, 
however, to take precautions, if Fanny 
would solemnly promise not to tell 
Zoe, and so wound her. On that 
condition, he would see his head-keep- 
er to-morrow, and all the keepers and 
watches should be posted so as to en- 


circle the paiish with vigilance. He 
assured Fanny these fellows had a 
whole system of signals to the ear and 
eye, and Severne could not get with-, 
in a mile of the house undetected. 
“But,” said he, “I will not trust to 
that alone. I will send an advertise- 
ment to the local papers and the lead- 
ing London journals, so worded that 
the scoundrel shall know his forgery 
is detected, and that he will be ar- 
rested on a magistrate’s warrant if he 
sets foot in Barfordshire.” 

Fanny said that was capital, and, 
altogether, he had set her mind at 
rest. 

“Then do as much for me,” said 
Vizard. “Please explain a remark- 
able phenomenon. You were always 
a bright girl, and no fool ; but not 
exactly what humdrum people would 
call a good girl. You are not offend- 
ed ?” 

“The idea! Why, I have public- 
ly disowned goodness again and again. 
You have heard me.” 

“So I have. But was not that 
rather deceitful of you? for you have 
turned out as good as gold. Anxiety 
has kept me at home of late, and I 
have watched you. You live for 
others ; you are all over the house to 
serve two suffering women. That is 
real charity, not sexual charity, which 
humbugs the world, but not me. You 
are cook, house-maid, butler, nurse, 
and friend to both of them. In an 
interval of your time, so creditably 
employed, you come and cheer me up 
with your bright little face, and give 
me wise advice. I know that wom- 
en are all humbugs; only you are a 
humbug reversed, and deserve a statue 
— and trimmings. You have been 
passing yourself off for a naughty girl, 
and all the time you were an extra 
good one.” 

“And that puzzles the woman- 
hater, the cynical student, who says 
he has fathomed woman. My poor 
dear Harrington, if you can not read 
so shallow a character as I am, how 
will you get on with those ladies up- 


184 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


stairs — Zoe, who is as deep as the sea, 
and turbid with passion, and the Klos- 
king, who is as deep as the ocean ?” 

She thought a moment, and said, 
“There, I will have pity on you. 
You shall understand one woman be- 
fore you die, and that is me. I’ll give 
you the clue to my seeming inconsist- 
encies — if you will give me a cigar- 
ette. ” 

“What! another hidden virtue? 
You smoke?” 

“Not I, except when 1 happen to 
be with a noble soul who won’t tell.” 

Vizard found her a Russian cigar- 
ette, and lighted his own cigar, and 
she lectured as follows : 

“What women love, and can't do 
without, if they are young and healthy 
and spirited, is — Excitement. I am 
one who pines for it. Now, society 
is so constructed that to get excite- 
ment you must be naughty. Waltz- 
ing all night and flirting all day are 
excitement. Crochet, and church, 
and examining girls in St. Matthew, 
and dining en famille , and going to 
bed at ten, are stagnation. Good girls 
— that means stagnant girls : I hate 
and despise the tame little wretches, 
and I never was one, and never will 
be. But now look here: We have 
two ladies in love with one villain — 
that is exciting. One gets nearly 
killed in the house — that is gloriously 
exciting. The other is broken-heart- 
ed. If I were to be a bad girl, and 
say, ‘ It is not my business : I will 
leave them to themselves, and go my 
little mill-round of selfishness as be- 
fore,’ why, what a fool I must be! I 
should lose Excitement. Instead of 
that, I run and get things for the 
Klosking — Excitement. I cook for 
her, and nurse her, and sit up half the 
night — Excitement. Then I run to 
Zoe, and do my best for her — and get 
snubbed — Excitement. Then I sit 
at the head of your table, and order 
you — Excitement. Oh, it is lovely!” 

“Shall you not be sorry when they 
both get well, and Routine recom- 
mences ?” 


“Of course I shall. That is the 
sort of good girl I am. And, oh ! 
when that fatal day comes, how I 
shall flirt. Heaven help my next 
flirtee! I shall soon flirt out the 
stigma of a good girl. You mark my 
words, I shall flirt with some married 
man after this. I never did that yet. 
But I shall; I know I shall. — Ah! — 
there, I have burned my finger.” 

“Never mind. That is exciting.” 

“As such I accept it. Good-bve. 

I must go and relieve Miss Gale. 
Exit the good girl on her mission of 
charity — ha! ha! ha!” She hummed 
a valse a deux temps , and went dan- 
cing out with such a whirl that her 
petticoats, which were ample, and not, 
as now, like a sack tied at the knees, 
made quite a cool air in the room. 

She had not been gone long when 
Miss Gale came down, full of her pa- 
tient. She wanted to get her out of 
bed during the day-time, but said she 
was not strong enough to sit up. 
Would he order an invalid - couch 
down from London ? She described 
the article, and where it was to be 
had. 

He said Harris should go up in the 
morning and bring one down with 
him. 

He then put her several questions 
about her patient; and at last asked 
her, with an anxiety he in vain en- 
deavored to conceal, what she thought 
was the relation between her and Sev- 
ern e. 

Now it may be remembered that 
Miss Gale had once been on the point 
of telling him all she knew, and had 
written him a letter. But at that 
time the Klosking was not expected 
to appear on the scene in person. 
Were she now to say she had seen 
her and Severne living together, 
Rhoda felt that she should lower her 
patient. She had not the heart to do 
that. 

Rhoda Gale was not of an amorous 
temperament, and she was all the 
more open to female attachments. 
With a little encouragement she would 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


185 


have loved Zoe, but she had now 
transferred her affection to the Klos- 
king. She replied to Vizard almost 
like a male lover defending the object 
of his affection. 

“ The exact relation is more than 
I can tell ; but I think he has lived 
upon her, for she was richer than he 
was ; and I feel sure he has promised 
her marriage. And my great fear now 
is lest he should get hold of her and 
keep his promise. He is as poor as a 
rat or a female physician ; and she has 
a fortune in her voice, and has money 
besides, Miss Dover tells me. Pray 
keep her here till she is quite well, 
please.” 

“I will.” 

“And then let me have her up at 
Hillstoke. She is beginning to love 
me, and I dote on her.” 

“So do I.” 

“Ah, but you must not.” 

“Why not?” 

“ Because.” 

“Well, why not?” 

“ She is not to love any man again 
who will not marry her. I won’t let 
her. I’ll kill her first, I love her so. 
A rogue she sha’n’t marry, and I can’t 
let you marry her, because her con- 
nection with that Severne is mysteri- 
ous. She seems the soul of virtue, 
but I could not let you marry her un- 
til things are clearer.” 

“Make your mind easy. I will 
not marry her — nor any body else — 
till things are a great deal clearer than 
I have ever found them, where your 
sex is concerned.” 

Miss Gale approved the resolution. 

Next day Vizard posted his keepers, 
and sent his advertisements to the 
London and country journals. 

Eanny came into his study to tell 
him there was more trouble — Miss 
Maitland taken seriously ill, and had 
written to Zoe. 

“Poor old soul!” said Vizard. 
“I have a great mind to ride over 
and see her.” 

“Somebody ought to go,” said Fan- 
ny- 


“Well, you go.” 

“ How can I — with Zoe, and Made- 
moiselle Klosking, and you, to look 
after ?” 

“ Instead of one old woman. Not 
much excitement in that.” 

“No, cousin. To think of your 
remembering ! Why, you must have 
gone to bed sober. ” 

“ I often do.” 

“You were always an eccentric 
land-owner.” 

“Don’t you talk. You are a cari- 
cature.” 

This banter was interrupted by 
Miss Gale, who came to tell Harring- 
ton Mademoiselle Klosking desired to 
see him, at his leisure. 

He said he would come directly. 

“Before you go,” said Miss Gale, 
“let us come to an understanding. 
She had only two days’ fever ; but that 
fever, and the loss of blood, and the 
shock to her nerves, brought her to 
death’s door by exhaustion. Now she 
is slowly recovering her strength, be- 
cause she has a healthy stomach, and 
I give her no stimulants to spur and 
then weaken her, but choice and sim- 
ple esculents, the effect of which I 
watch, and vary them accordingly. 
But the convalescent period is always 
one of danger, especially from chills 
to the body, and excitements to the 
brain. At no period are more pa- 
tients thrown away for want of vigi- 
lance. Now I can guard against 
chills and other bodily things, but not 
against excitements — unless you co- 
operate. The fact is, we must agree 
to avoid speaking about Mr. Severne. 
We must be on our guard. We must 
parry ; we must evade ; we must be 
deaf, stupid, slippery ; but no Severne 
— for five or six days more, at all 
events.” 

Thus forewarned, Vizard, in due 
course, paid his second visit to Ina 
Klosking. 

He found her propped up with pil- 
lows this time. She begged him to 
be seated. 

She had evidently something on her 


186 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


mind, and her nurses watched her 
like cats. 

“ You are fond of music, sir?” 

“Not of all music. I adore good 
music, I hate bad, and I despise medi- 
ocre. Silence is golden, indeed, com- 
pared with poor music.” 

“You are right, sir. Have you 
good music in the house ?” 

“ A little. I get all the operas, 
and you know there are generally 
one or two good things in an op- 
era — among the rubbish. But the 
great bulk of our collection is rather 
old-fashioned. It is sacred music — 
oratorios, masses, anthems, services, 
chants. My mother was the collect- 
or. Her tastes were good, but nar- 
row. Do you care for that sort of 
music?” 

“Sacred music? Why, it is, of all 
music, the most divine, and soothes 
the troubled soul. Can I not see the 
books? I read music like words. 
By reading I almost hear.” 

“We will bring you up a dozen 
books to begin on.” 

He went down directly; and such 
was his pleasure in doing any thing 
for the Klosking that he executed the 
order in person, brought up a little 
pile of folios and quartos, beautifully 
bound and lettered, a lady having been 
the collector. 

Now, as he mounted the stairs, with 
his very chin upon the pile, who should 
he see looking over the rails at him 
but his sister Zoe. 

She was sadly changed. There 
was a fixed ashen pallor on her cheek, 
and a dark circle under her eyes. 

He stopped to look at her. “My 
poor child,” said he, “ vou look very 
ill.” 

“ I am very ill, dear.” 

“ Would you not be better for a 
change ?” 

“I might.” 

“Why coop yourself up in vour 
own room ? Why deny yourself a 
brother’s sympathy ?” 

The girl trembled, and tears came 
to her eyes. 


“Is it with me you sympathize?” 
said she. 

“ Can you doubt it, Zoe ?” 

Zoe hung her head a moment, and 
did not reply. Then she made a di- 
version. “What are those books? 
Oh, I see — your mother’s music-books. 
Nothing is too good for her." 

“Nothing in the wav of music-books 
is too good for her. For shame! are 
you jealous of that unfortunate lady ?” 

Zoe made no reply. 

She put her hands before her face, 
that Vizard might not see her mind. 

Then he rested his books on a ta- 
ble, and came and took her head in 
his hands paternally. “Do not shut 
yourself up any longer. Solitude is 
dangerous to the afflicted. Be more 
with me than ever, and let this cruel 
blow bind us more closely, instead of 
disuniting us.” 

He kissed her lovingly, and his kind 
words set her tears flowing; but they 
did her little good — they were bitter 
tears. Between her and her brother 
there was now a barrier sisterly love 
could not pass. He hated and de- 
spised Edward Severne ; and she only 
distrusted him, and feared he was a 
villain. She loved him still with ev- 
ery fibre of her heart, and pined for 
his explanation of all that seemed so 
dark. 

So then he entered the sick-room 
with his music-books ; and Zoe, after 
watching him in without seeming to 
do so, crept away to her own room. 

Then there was rather a pretty lit- 
tle scene. Miss Gale and Miss Dover, 
on each side of the bed, held a heavy 
music-book, and Mademoiselle Klos- 
king turned the leaves and read, when 
the composition was worth reading. 
If it was not, she quietly passed it 
over, without any injurious comment. 

Vizard watched her from the foot 
of the bed, and could tell in a moment, 
by her face, whether the composition 
was good, bad, or indifferent. When 
bad, her face seemed to turn impas- 
sive, like marble ; when good, to ex- 
pand ; and when she lighted on a 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


masterpiece, she was almost transfig- 
ured, and her face shone with elevated 
joy. 

This was a study to the enamored 
Vizard, and it did not escape the 
quick-sighted doctress. She despised 
music on its own merits, but she de- 
spised nothing that could be pressed 
into the service of medicine ; and she 
said to herself, “ I’ll cure her with 
esculents and music.” 

The book was taken away to make 
room for another. 

Then said Ina Klosking, “Mr. 
Vizard, I desire to say a word to you. 
Excuse me, my dear friends.” 

Miss Gale colored up. She had 
not foreseen a tete-a-tete between 
Vizard and her patient. However, 
there was no help for it, and she with- 
drew to a little distance with Fanny ; 
but she said to Vizard, openly and 
expressively, “Remember!” 

When they had withdrawn a little 
way, Ina Klosking fixed her eyes on 
Vizard, and said, in a low voice, “ Your 
sister!” 

Vizard started a little at the sud- 
denness of this, but he said nothing: 
he did not know what to say. 

When she had waited a little, and 
he said nothing, she spoke again. 
“Tell me something about her. Is 
she good ? Forgive me : it is not that 
I doubt.” 

“She is good, according to her 
lights.” 

“ Is she proud ?” 

“Yes.” 

“ Is she just?” 

“ No. And I never met a woman 
that was.” 

“ Indeed it is rare. Why does she 
not visit me ?” 

“ I don’t know.” 

“She blames me for all that has 
happened.” 

“ I don’t know, madam. My sis- 
ter looks very ill, and keeps her own 
room. If she does not visit you, she 
holds equally aloof from us all. She 
has not taken a single meal with me 
for some days.” 


187 

“ Since I was your patient and your 
guest.” 

“Pray do not conclude from that — 
Who can interpret a woman ?” 

“Another woman. Enigmas to 
you, w r e are transparent to each other. 
Sir, will you grant me a favor ? Will 
you persuade Miss Vizard to see me 
here alone — all alone ? It will be a 
greater trial to me than to her, for I 
am weak. In this request I am not 
selfish. She can do nothing for me; 
but I can do a little for her, to pay 
the debt of gratitude I owe this hos- 
pitable house. May Heaven bless it, 
from the roof to the foundation-stone ! ” 

“ I will speak to my sister, and she 
shall visit you — with the consent of 
your physician.” 

“ It is well,” said Ina Klosking, and 
beckoned her friends, one of whom, 
Miss Gale, proceeded to feel her pulse, 
with suspicious glances at Vizard. 
But she found the pulse calm, and 
said so. 

Vizard took his leave, and went 
straight to Zoe’s room. She was not 
there. He was glad of that, for it 
gave him hopes she was going to re- 
spect his advice, and give up her sol- 
itary life. 

He went down-stairs and on to the 
lawn to look for her. He could not 
see her anywhere. 

At last, when he had given up look- 
ing for her, he found her in his study 
crouched in a corner. 

She rose at sight of him, and stood 
before him. “ Harrington,” said she, 
in rather a commanding way, “Aunt 
Maitland is ill, and I wish to go to her.” 

Harrington stared at her with sur- 
prise. “You are not well enough 
yourself. ” 

“Quite well enough in body to go 
anywhere.” 

“Well, but — ” said Harrington. 

She caught him up impatiently. 
“Surely you can not object to my 
visiting Aunt Maitland. She is dan- 
gerously ill. I had a second letter 
this morning — see.” And she held 
him out a letter. 


188 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


Harrington was in a difficulty. He 
felt sure this was not her real motive ; 
but he did not like to say so harshly 
to an unhappy girl. He took a mod- 
erate course. “Not just now, dear,” 
said he. 

“What! am I to wait till she 
dies ?” cried Zoe, getting agitated at 
his opposition. 

“ Be reasonable, dear. You know 
you are the mistress of this house. 
J)o not desert me just now. Con- 
sider the position. It is a very chat- 
tering county. I entertain Mademoi- 
selle Klosking ; I could not do oth- 
erwise when she was nearly killed 
in my hall. But for my sister to go 
away while she remains here would 
have a bad effect.” 

“It is too late to think of that, 
Harrington. The mischief is done, 
and you must plead your eccentricity. 
Why should I bear the blame? I 
never approved it.” 

“You would have sent her to an 
inn, eh ?” 

“No; but Miss Gale offered to 
take her.” 

“ Then I am to understand that you 
propose to mark your reprobation of 
my conduct by leaving my house.” 

“What! publicly? Oh no. You 
may say to yourself that your sister 
could not bear to stay under the same 
roof with Mr. Severne’s mistress. But 
this chattering county shall never 
know my mind. My aunt is danger- 
ously ill. She lives but thirty miles 
off. She is a fit object of pity. She 
is a — respectable — lady; she is all 
alone; no female physician, no flirt 
turned Sister of Charity, no woman- 
hater, to fetch and carry for her. 
And so I shall go to her. I am your 
sister, not your slave. If you grudge 
me your horses, I will go on foot.” 

Vizard was white with wrath, but 
governed himself like a man. “Go 
on, young lady!” said he; “go on! 
Jeer, and taunt, and wound the best 
brother any young madwoman ever 
had. But don’t think I’ll answer you 
as you deserve. I’m too cunning. 


If I was to say an unkind w'ord to 
you, I should suffer the tortures of the 
damned. So go on !” 

“No, no. Forgive me, Harring- 
ton. It is your opposition that drives 
me wild. Oh, have pity on me! I 
shall go mad if I stay here. l)o, pray, 
pray, pray let me go to Aunt Mait- 
land!” 

“You shall go, Zoe. But I tell 
you plainly, this step will be a blow 
to our affection — the first.” 

Zoe cried at that. But as she did 
not withdraw her request, Harrington 
told her, with cold civility, that she 
must be good enough to be ready di- 
rectly after breakfast to-morrow, and 
take as little luggage as she could 
with convenience to herself. 

Horses were sent on that night to 
the “Fox,” an inn half-way between 
Vizard Court and Miss Maitland’s 
place. 

In the morning a light barouche, 
with a sling for luggage, came round, 
and Zoe was soon seated in it. Then, 
to her surprise, Harrington came out 
and sat beside her. 

She was pleased at this, and said, 
“ What ! are you going with me, dear, 
all that way ?” 

“Yes, to save appearances,” said 
he; and took out a newspaper to read. 

This froze Zoe, and she retired 
within herself. 

It was a fine fresh morning ; the 
coachman drove fast ; the air fanned 
her cheek ; the motion was enliven- 
ing ; the horses’ hoofs rang quick and 
clear upon the road. Fresh objects 
met the eve every moment. Her 
heart was as sad and aching as be- 
fore, but there arose a faint encour- 
aging sense that some day she might 
be better, or things might take some 
turn. 

When they had rolled about ten 
miles she said, in a low voice, “Har- 
rington.” 

“Well ?” 

“You were right. Cooping one’s 
self up is the way to gc mad.” 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


189 


“ Of course it is.” 

“ I feel a little better now — a very 
little.” 

“I am glad of it.” 

But he was not hearty, and she said 
no more. 

He was extremely attentive to her 
all the journey, and, indeed, had never 
been half so polite to her. 

This, however, led to a result he 
did not intend nor anticipate. Zoe, 
being now cool, fell into a state of 
compunction and dismay. She saw 
his affection leaving her for her, and 
stiff politeness coming instead. 

She leaned forward, put her hands 
on his knees, and looked, all scared, 
in his face. “ Harrington,” she cried, 
“ I was wrong. What is Aunt Mait- 
land to me? You are my all. Bid 
him turn the horses’ heads and go 
home.” 

‘ ‘ Why, we are only six miles from 
the place.” 

“What does that matter? We 
shall have had a good long drive to- 
gether, and I will dine with you after 
it ; and I will ride or drive with you 
every day, if you will let me. ” 

Vizard could not help smiling. 
He was disarmed. “You impulsive 
young monkey,” said he, “I shall do 
nothing of the kind. In the first 
place, I couldn’t turn back from any 
thing; I’m only a man. In the next 
place, I have been thinking it over, as 
you have; and this is a good move 
of ours, though I was a little mortified 
at first. Occupation is the best cure 
of love, and this old lady will find you 
plenty. Besides, nursing improves 
the character. Look at that frivolous 
girl Fanny, how she has come out. 
And you know, Zoe, if you get sick 
of it in a day or two, you have only to 
write to me, and I will send for you 
directly. A short absence, with so 
reasonable a motive as visiting a sick 
aunt, will provoke no comments. It 
is all for the best.” 

This set Zoe at her ease, and broth- 
er and sister resumed their usual man- 
ners. 


They reached Miss Maitland’s 
house, and were admitted to her sick- 
room. She was really very ill, and 
thanked them so pathetically for com- 
ing to visit a poor lone old woman that 
now they were both glad they had 
come. 

Zoe entered on her functions with 
an alacrity that surprised herself, and 
Vizard drove away. But he did not 
drive straight home. He had started 
from Vizard Court with other views. 
He had telegraphed Lord Uxmoor 
the night before, and now drove to his 
place, which was only five miles dis- 
tant. He found him at home, and 
soon told him his errand. “Do you 
remember meeting a young fellow at 
my house, called Severne?” 

“I do,” said Lord Uxmoor, dryly 
enough. 

“ Well, he has turned out an im- 
postor. ” 

Uxmoor’s eye flashed. He had al- 
ways suspected Severne of being his 
rival, and a main cause of his defeat. 
“An impostor ?” said he: “that is 
rather a strong word. Certainly I 
never heard a gentleman tell such a 
falsehood as he volunteered about — 
what’s the fellow’s name? — a detect- 
ive.” 

“Oh, Poikilus. That is nothing. 
That was one of his white lies. He is 
a villain all round, and a forger by 
way of climax.” 

“ A forger ! What, a criminal ?” 

“Rather! Here are his drafts. 
The drawer and acceptor do not exist. 
The whole thing was written by Ed- 
ward Severne, whose indorsement fig- 
ures on the bill. He got me to cash 
these bills. I deposit them with you, 
and I ask you for a warrant to com- 
mit him — if he should come this way.” 

“Is that likely?” 

“ Not at all ; it is a hundred to one 
he never shows his nose again in Bar- 
fordshire. When he was found out, 
he bolted, and left his very clothes in 
my house. I packed them off to the 
‘ Swan ’ at Taddington. He has nev- 
er been heard of since ; and I have 


190 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


warned him, by advertisement, that 
he will be arrested if ever he sets foot 
in Barfordshire.” 

“Well, then?” 

“Well, then, I am not going to 
throw away a chance. The beggar 
had the impudence to spoon on my 
sister Zoe. That was my fault, not 
hers. He was an old college ac- 
quaintance, and 1 gave him opportu- 
nities — I deserve to be horsewhipped. 
However, I am not going to commit 
the same blunder twice. My sister is 
in your neighborhood for a few days.” 

“Ah!” 

“And perhaps you will be good 
enough to keep your eye on her.” 

“I feel much honored by such a 
commission. But you have not told 
me where Miss Vizard is.” 

“With her aunt, Miss Maitland, at 
Somerville Villa, near Bagley. Apro- 
pos, I had better tell you what she is 
there for, or your good dowager will 
be asking her to parties. She has 
come to nurse her aunt Maitland. 
The old lady is seriotisly'^ill, and all 
our young coquettes are going in for 
nursing. We have a sick lady at our 
house, I am sorry to say, and she is 
nursed like a queen by Uoctress Gale 
and ex-Elirt Fanny Dover. Now is 
fulfilled the saying that was said, 

‘ O woman ! in our hours of ease — ’ 

I spare you the rest, and simply re- 
mark that our Zoe, fired by the exam- 
ple of those two ladies, lias devoted 
herself to nursing Aunt Maitland. It 
is very good of her, but experience 
tells me she will very soon find it ex- 
tremely trying; and as she is a very 
pretty girl, and therefore a fit subject 
of male charity, you might pay her a 
visit now and then, and show her that 
this best of all possible worlds con- 
tains young gentlemen of distinction, 
with long and glossy beards, as well 
as peevish old women, who are extra 
selfish and tyrannical when they hap- 
pen to be sick.” 

Uxmoor positively radiated as this 
programme was unfolded to him. 


Vizard observed that, and chuckled 
inwardly. 

He then handed him the forged ac- 
ceptances. 

Lord Uxmoor begged him to write 
down the facts on paper, and also his 
application for the warrant. He did 
so. Lord Uxmoor locked the paper 
up, and the friends parted. Vizard 
drove off, easy in his mind, and con- 
gratulating himself, not unreasonably, 
on his little combination, by means of 
which he had provided his sister with 
a watch - dog, a companion, and an 
honorable lover, all in one. 

Uxmoor put on his hat and strode 
forth into his own grounds, with his 
heart beating high at this strange turn 
of things in favor of his love. 

Neither foresaw the strange combi- 
nations which were to arise out of an 
event that appeared so simple and 
one-sided. 


CHAPTER XXII. 

Ina Klosking’s cure was retarded 
by the state of her mind. The ex- 
citement and sharp agony her phy- 
sician had feared died away as the 
fever of the brain subsided ; but then 
there settled down a grim, listless 
lethargy, which obstructed her return 
to health and vigor. Once she said 
to Rhoda Gale, “But I have nothing 
to get well for.” As a rule, she did 
not speak her mind, but thought a 
great deal. She often asked after 
Zoe ; and her nurses could see that 
her one languid anxiety was somehow 
connected with that lady. Yet she 
did not seem hostile to her now, nor 
jealous. It was hard to understand 
her ; she was reserved, and very deep. 

The first relief to the deadly lan- 
guor of her mind came to her from 
Music. That was no great wonder ; 
but, strange to say, the music that 
did her good was neither old enough 
to be revered, nor new enough- to be 
fashionable. It was English music 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


too, and passe music. She came across 
a collection of Anglican anthems and 
services — written, most of it, toward 
the end of the last century and the 
beginning of this. The composers’ 
names promised little : they were 
Blow, Nares, Green, Kent, King, 
Jackson, etc. The words and the 
music of these compositions seemed 
to suit one another; and, as they 
were all quite new to her, she went 
through them almost eagerly, and 
hummed several of the strains, and 
with her white but now thin hand beat 
time to others. She even sent for 
Vizard, and said to him, “You have 
a treasure here. Do you know these 
compositions?” 

He inspected his treasure. “I re- 
member,” said he, “my mother used 
to sing this one, ‘ When the Eye saw 
Her, then it blessed Her;’ and parts 
of this one, ‘Hear my Prayer;’ and, 
let me see, she used to sing this psalm, 
‘ Praise the Lord,’ by Jackson. I am 
ashamed to say I used to ask for 
‘Praise the Lord Jackson,’ meaning 
to be funny, not devout.” 

“She did not choose ill,” said Ina. 
“I thought I knew English music, 
yet here is a whole stream of it new 
to me. Is it esteemed ?” 

“I think it was once, but it has 
had its day.” 

“ That is strange ; for here are some 
immortal qualities. These composers 
had brains, and began at the right 
end ^ they selected grand and tuneful 
words, great and pious thoughts ; they 
impregnated themselves with those 
words, and produced appropriate mu- 
sic. The harmonies are sometimes 
thin, and the writers seem scarcely to 
know the skillful use of discords ; but 
they had heart and invention ; they 
saw their way clear before they wrote 
the first note; there is an inspired 
simplicity and fervor : if all these 
choice things are dead, they must have 
fallen upon bad interpreters.” 

“No doubt,” said Vizard; “so 
please get well, and let me hear these 
pious strains, which my poor dear 


191 

mother loved so well, interpreted wor- 
thily.” 

The Klosking’s eyes filled. “ That 
is a temptation,” said she, simply. 
Then she turned to Rhoda Gale. 
“Sweet physician, he has done me 
good. He has given me something 
to get well for.” 

Vizard’s heart yearned. “Do not 
talk like that,” said he, buoyantly; 
then, in a broken voice, “Heaven 
forbid you should have nothing better 
to live for than that.” 

“Sir,” said she, gravely, “I have 
nothing better to live for now than 
to interpret good music worthily.” 

There was a painful silence. 

Ina broke it. She said, quite calm- 
ly, “First of all, I wish to know how 
others interpret these strains your 
mother loved, and I have the honor 
to agree with her.” 

“Oh,” said Vizard, “we will soon 
manage that for you. These things 
are not defunct, only unfashionable. 
Every choir in England has sung 
them, and can sing them, after a fash- 
ion : so, at twelve o’clock to-morrow, 
look out — for squalls !” 

He mounted his horse, rode into 
the cathedral town — distant eight 
miles — and arranged with the organ- 
ist for himself, four leading boys, and 
three lay clerks. He was to send a 
carriage in for them after the morning 
service, and return them in good time 
for vespers. 

Fanny told Ina Klosking, and she 
insisted on getting up. 

By this time Doctress Gale had 
satisfied herself that a little excitement 
was downright good for her patient, 
and led to refreshing sleep. So they 
dressed her loosely but very warmly, 
and rolled her to the window on her 
invalid couch, set at a high angle. 
It was a fine clear day in October, 
keen but genial ; and after muffling 
her well, they opened the window. 

While she sat there, propped high, 
and inhaling the pure air, Vizard con- 
veyed his little choir, by another stair- 
case, into the antechamber ; and, un- 


192 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


der his advice, they avoided preludes, 
and opened in full chorus with Jack- 
son’s song of praise. 

At the first burst of sacred har- 
mony, Ina Klosking was observed to 
quiver all over. 

They sung it rather coarsely, but 
correctly and boldly, and with a cer- 
tain fervor. There were no operatic 
artifices to remind her of earth ; the 
purity and the harmony struck her 
full. The great singer and sufferer 
lifted her clasped hands to God, and 
the tears flowed fast down her cheeks. 

These tears were balm to that poor 
lacerated soul, tormented by many 
blows. 

“ O lacrymarum fons, tcnero sacros 
Ducemtium ortus ex ammo, quater 
Felix, in imo qui scatentem 
Pectore, te, pia nympha, seusit.” 

Rhoda Gale, who hated music like 
poison, crept up to her, and, infolding 
her delicately, laid a pair of wet eyes 
softly on her shoulder. 

Vizard now tapped at the door, and 
was admitted from the music- room. 
He begged Ina to choose another com- 
position from her book. She marked 
a service and two anthems, and hand- 
ed him the volume, but begged they 
might not be done too soon, one aft- 
er the other. That would be quite 
enough for one day, especially if they 
would be good enough to repeat the 
hymn of praise to conclude; “for,” 
said she, “these are things to be di- 
gested.” 

Soon the boys’ pure voices rose 
again, and those poor dead English 
composers, with prosaic names, found 
their way again to the great foreign 
singer’s soul. 

They sung an anthem, which is 
now especially despised by those great 
critics, the organists of the country — 
“My Song shall be of Mercy and 
Judgment.” 

The Klosking forgave the thinness 
of the harmony, and many little faults 
in the vocal execution. The words, 
no doubt, went far with her, being 
clearly spoken. She sat meditating, 


with her moist eyes raised, and her 
face transfigured, and at the end she 
murmured to Vizard, with her eyes 
still raised, “After all, they are great 
and pious words, and the music has 
at least this crowning virtue — it means 
the words.” Then she suddenly turn- 
ed upon him, and said, “There is an- 
other person in this house who needs 
this consolation as much as I do. 
Why does she not come? But per- 
haps she is with the musicians.” 

“ Whom do you mean ?” 

“ Your sister.” 

“ Why, she is not in the house.” 

Ina Klosking started at that infor- 
mation, and bent her eyes keenly and 
inquiringly on him. 

“ She left two days ago.” 

“Indeed!” 

“To nurse a sick aunt.” 

“Indeed! Had she no other rea- 
son ?’’ 

“Not that I know of,” said Viz- 
ard ; but he could not help coloring a 
little. 

The little choir now sung a service, 
King in F. They sung “The Mag- 
nificat” rudely, and rather profanely, 
but recovered themselves in the ‘ 4 Di- 
mittis.” 

When it was over, Ina whispered, 
‘“To be a light TO lighten the Gen- 
tiles.’ That is an inspired duet. Oh, 
how it might be sung!” 

“Of course it might,” whispered 
Vizard; “so you have something to 
get well for.” 

“Yes, my friend — thanks to you 
and your sainted mother.” 

This, uttered in a voice which, 
under the healing influence of music, 
seemed to have regained some of its 
rich melody, was too much for our 
cynic, and he bustled off to hide his 
emotion, and invited the musicians to 
lunch. 

All the servants had been listening 
on the stairs, and the hospitable old 
butler plied the boys with sparkling 
Moselle, which, being himself reared 
on mighty Fort, he thought a light 
and playful wine — just the thing for 


193 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


women and children. So after lunch- 
eon they sung rather wild, and the 
Klosking told Vizard, dryly, that 
would do for the present. 

Then he ordered the carriage for 
them, and asked Mademoiselle Klos- 
king when she would like them 
again. 

“When can I?” she inquired, 
rather timidly. 

“Every day, if you like — Sundays 
and all.” 

“ I must be content with every oth- 
er day.” 

Vizard said he would arrange it so, 
and was leaving her; but she begged 
him to stay a moment. 

“She would be safer here,” said 
she, very gravely. 

Vizard was taken aback by the sud- 
denness of this return to a topic he 
was simple enough to think she had 
abandoned. However, he said, “ She 
is safe enough. I have taken care of 
that, you may be sure.” 

“You have done well, sir,” said 
Ina, very gravely. 

She said no more to him; but just 
before dinner Fanny came in, and 
Miss Gale went for a walk in the 
garden. Ina pinned Fanny directly. 
“Where is Miss Vizard?” said she, 
quietly. 

Fanny colored up ; but seeing in a 
moment that fibs would be dangerous, 
said, mighty carelessly, “She is at 
Aunt Maitland’s.” 

“ Where does she live, dear?” 

“In a poky little place called 
‘Somerville Villa.’” 

“ Far from this ?” 

“Not very. It is forty miles by 
the railway, but not thirty by the 
road ; and Zoe went in the barouche 
all the way.” 

Mademoiselle Klosking thought a 
little, and then taking Fanny Dover’s 
hand, said to her, very sweetly, “ I beg 
you to honor me with your confidence, 
and tell me something. Believe me, 
it is for no selfish motive I ask you; 
but I think Miss Vizard is in danger. 
She is too far from her brother, and 
9 


too far from me. Mr. Vizard says 
she is safe. Now, can you tell me 
what he means? How can she be 
safe? Is her heart turned to stone, 
like mine ?” 

“ No, indeed,” said Fanny. “ Yes, 
I will be frank with you ; for I be- 
lieve you are wiser than any one of 
us. Zoe is not safe, left to herself. 
Her heart is any thing but stone; 
and Heaven knows what wild, mad 
thing she might be led into. But I 
know perfectly well what Vizard 
means : no, I don’t like to tell it you 
all ; it will give you pain.” 

“ There is little hope of that. I am 
past pain.” 

“Well, then — Miss Gale will scold 
me.” 

“No, she shall not.” 

“Oh, I know you have got the 
upper hand even of her; so if you 
promise I shall not be scolded, I’ll 
tell you. You see, I had my misgiv- 
ings about this very thing ; and as 
soon as Vizard came home — it was 
he who took her to Aunt Maitland — I 
asked him what precautions he had 
taken to hinder that man from getting 
hold of her again. Well, then — oh, I 
ought to have begun by telling you 
Mr. Severne forged bills to get money 
out of Harrington.” 

“Good heavens!” 

“ Oh, Harrington will never punish 
him, if he keeps his distance ; but he 
has advertised in all the papers, warn- 
ing him that if he sets foot in Barford- 
shire he will be arrested and sent to 
prison. ” 

Ina Klosking shook her head. 
“ When a man is in love with such a 
woman as that, dangers could hardly 
deter him.” 

“That depends upon the man, I 
think. But Harrington has done bet- 
ter than that. He has provided her 
with a watch -dog — the best of all 
watch - dogs — another lover. Lord 
Uxmoor lives near Aunt Maitland, 
and he adores Zoe; so Harrington 
has commissioned him to watch her, 
and cure her, and all. I wish he’d 


194 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


cure me — an earl’s coronet and twen- 
ty thousand a year!” 

“You relieve my mind,” said Ina. 
Then, after a pause — “But let me 
ask you one question more. Why 
did you not tell me Miss Vizard was 
gone ?” 

“I don’t know,” said Fanny, color- 
ing up. “ She told me not.” 

“Who?” 

“Why, the Vixen in command. 
She orders every body.” 

“And why did she forbid you?” 

“Don’t know.” 

“Yes, you do. Kiss me, dear. 
There, I will distress you with no 
more questions. Why should I ? Our 
instincts seldom deceive us. Well, so 
be it : I have something more to get 
well for, and I will.” 

Fanny looked up at her inquiring- 
ly* 

“Yes,” said she; “the daughter 
of this hospitable house will never re- 
turn to it while I am in it. Poor 
girl; she thinks she is the injured 
woman. So be it. I will get well — 
and leave it.” 

Fanny communicated this to Miss 
Gale, and all she said was, “She shall 
go no farther than Hillstoke, then ; 
for I love her better than any man 
can love her.” 

Fanny did not tell Vizard ; and he 
was downright happy, seeing the wom- 
an he loved recover, by slow degrees, 
her health, her strength, her color, her 
voice. Parting was not threatened. 
He did not realize that they should 
ever part at all. He had vague 
hopes that, while she was under his 
roof, opportunity might stand his 
friend, and she might requite his af- 
fection. All this would not bear 
looking into very closely: for that 
very reason he took particular care 
not to look into it very closely ; but 
hoped all things, and was happy. In 
this condition he received a little 
shock. 

A one-horse fly was driven up to 
the door, and a card brought in — 


“Mb. Joseph Ashmead.” 

Vizard was always at home at Viz- 
ard Court, except to convicted Bores. 
Mr. Ashmead was shown into his 
study. 

Vizard knew him at a glance. 
The velveteen coat had yielded to 
tweed ; but another loud tie had suc- 
ceeded to the one “that fired the air 
at Homburg.” There, too, was the 
wash - leather face, and other traits 
Vizard professed to know an actress’s 
lover by. Yes, it was the very man 
at sight of whom he had fought down 
his admiration of La Klosking, and 
declined an introduction to her. Viz- 
ard knew the lady better now. But 
still he was a little jealous even of her 
acquaintances, and thought this one 
unworthy of her ; so he received him 
with stiff but guarded politeness, leav- 
ing him to open his business. 

Ashmead, overawed by the avenue, 
the dozen gables, four-score chimneys, 
etc., addressed him rather obsequious- 
ly, but with a certain honest trouble, 
that soon softened the bad impression 
caused by his appearance. 

“Sir,” said he, “pray excuse this 
intrusion of a stranger, but I am in 
great anxiety. It is not for myself, 
but for a lady, a very distinguished 
lady, whose interests I am charged 
with. It is Mademoiselle Klosking, 
the famous singer.” 

Vizard maintained a grim silence. 

“ You may have heard of her.” 

“I have.” 

“ I almost fancy you once heard her 
sing — at Homburg.” 

“I did.” 

“ Then I am sure you must have 
admired her, being a gentleman of 
taste. Well, sir, it is near a fortnight 
since I heard from her.” 

“Well, sir?” 

“You will say what is that to you? 
But the truth is, she left me, in Lon- 
don, to do certain business for her, 
and she went down to this very place. 
I offered to come with her, but she 
declined. To be sure, it was a deli- 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


195 


cate matter, and not at all in my way. 
She was to write to me and report 
progress, and give me her address, 
that I might write to her ; but near- 
ly a fortnight has passed. I have not 
received a single letter. I am in real 
distress and anxiety. A great career 
awaits her in England, sir ; but this 
silence is so mysterious, so alarming, 
that I begin actually to hope she has 
played the fool, and thrown it all up, 
and gone abroad with that black- 
guard.” 

“What blackguard, sir?” 

Joseph drew in his horns. “I 
spoke too quick, sir,” said he ; “ it is 
no business of mine. But these brill- 
iant women are as mad as the rest in 
throwing away their affections. They 
prefer a blackguard to a good man. 
It is the rule. Excuse my plain- 
speaking.” 

“Mr. Ashmead,” said Vizard, “I 
may be able to answer your questions 
about this lady ; but, before I do so, 
it is right I should know how far you 
possess her confidence. To speak 
plainly, have you any objection to tell 
me what is the precise relation be- 
tween you and her ?” 

“Certainly not, sir. I am her the- 
atrical agent.” 

“Is that all ?” 

“Not quite. I have been a good 
deal about her lately, and have seen 
her in deep distress. I think I may 
almost say I am her friend, though a 
very humble one.” 

Vizard did not yet quite realize the 
truth that this Bohemian had in his 
heart one holy spot — his pure devotion 
and unsexual friendship for that great 
artist. Still, his prejudices were dis- 
armed, and he said, “Well, Mr. Ash- 
mead, excuse my cross - questioning 
you. 1 will now give myself the pleas- 
ure of setting your anxieties at rest. 
Mademoiselle Klosking is in this 
house.” 

Ashmead stared at him, and then 
broke out, “In this house! Oh, 
Lord ! How can that be ?” 

“It happened in a way very dis- 


tressing to us all, though the result 
is now so delightful. Mademoiselle 
Klosking called here on a business 
with which, perhaps, you are acquaint- 
ed.” 

“ I am, sir.” 

“Unfortunately she met with an 
accident in my very hall, an accident 
that endangered her life, sir ; and of 
course we took charge of her. She 
has had a zealous physician and good 
nurses, and she is recovering slowly. 
She is quite out of danger, but still 
weak. I have no doubt she will be 
delighted to see you. Only, as we 
are all under the orders of her physi- 
cian, and that physician is a woman, 
and a bit of a vixen, you must allow 
me to go and consult her first.” 

Vizard retired, leaving Joseph hap- 
py, but mystified. 

He was not long alone. In less 
than a minute he had for companions 
some well-buttered sandwiches made 
with smoked ham, and a bottle of old 
Madeira. The solids melted in his 
mouth, the liquid ran through his 
veins like oil charged with electricity 
and elixir vita. 

By-and-by a female servant came 
for him, and ushered him into Ina 
Klosking’s room. 

She received him with undisguised 
affection, and he had much ado to 
keep from crying. She made him sit 
down near her in the vast embrasure 
of the window, and gave him a letter 
to read she had just written to him. 

They compared notes very rapidly ; 
but their discourse will not be given 
here, because so much of it would be 
repetition. 

They were left alone to talk, and 
they did talk for more than an hour. 
The first interruption, indeed, was a 
recitativo with chords, followed by a 
verse from the leading treble. 

Mr. Ashmead looked puzzled ; the 
Klosking eyed him demurely. 

Before the anthem concluded, Viz- 
ard tapped, and was admitted from 
the music -room. Ina smiled, and 
waved him to a chair. Both the men 


196 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


saw, by her manner, they were not to 
utter a sound while the music was 
going on. When it ceased, she said, 
“Do you approve that, my friend ?” 

“ If it pleases you, madam,” replied 
the wary Ashmead. 

“ It does more than please me ; it 
does me good.” 

“ That reconciles me to it at once.” 

“ Oh, then you do not admire it for 
itself.” 

* ‘ Not — very — much. ” 

“ Pray, speak plainly. I am not a 
tyrant, to impose my tastes.” 

“ Well then, madam, I feel very 
grateful to any thing that does you 
good : otherwise, I should say the 
music was — rather dreary ; and the 
singing — very insipid.” 

The open struggle between Joseph’s 
honesty and his awe of the Klosking 
tickled Vizard so that he leaned back 
in his chair and laughed heartily. 

The Klosking smiled superior. 
“He means,” said she, “that the 
music is not operatic, and the boys do 
not clasp their hands, and shake their 
shoulders, and sing passionately, as 
women do in a theatre. Heaven for- 
bid they should ! If this world is all 
passion, there is another which is all 
peace ; and these boys’ sweet, artless 
tones are the nearest thing we shall 
get in this world to the unimpassioned 
voices of the angels. They are fit in- 
struments for pious words set by com- 
posers, who, however obscure they 
may be, were men inspired, and have 
written immortal strains, which, as I 
hear them, seem hardly of this world 
— they are so free from all mortal 
dross.” 

Vizard assented warmly. Ashmead 
asked permission to hear another. 
They sung the “ Magnificat ” by King, 
in F. 

“Upon my word,” said Ashmead, 
“ there is a good deal of ‘ go ’ in that.” 

Then they sung the “Nunc Dimit- 
tis.” He said, a little dryly, there 
was plenty of repose in that. 

“ My friend,” said she, “ there is — 
to the honor of the composer: the 


‘Magnificat’ is the bright and lofty 
exultation of a young woman who has 
borne the Messiah, and does not fore- 
see his sufferings, only the boon to the 
world and the glory to herself. But 
the ‘ Dimittis ’ is the very opposite. It 
is a gentle joy, and the world content- 
edly resigned by a good old man, fa- 
tigued, who has run his race, and longs 
to sleep after life’s fever. When next 
you have the good fortune to hear that 
song, think you see the sun descend- 
ing red and calm after a day of storms, 
and an aged Christian saying, ‘ Good- 
night,’ and you will honor poor dead 
King as I do. The music that truly 
reflects great words was never yet 
small music, write it who may.” 

“ You are right, madam, ’’said Ash- 
mead. “ When I doubted its being 
good music, I suppose I meant sala- 
ble.” 

“Ah, voila /” said the Klosking. 
Then, turning to Vizard for sympa- 
thy, “What this faithful friend under- 
stands by good music is music that 
can be sold for a good deal of money.” 

“ That is so,” said Ashmead, stout- 
ly. “I am a theatrical agent. You 
can’t make a silk purse out of a sow’s 
ear. You have tried it more than 
once, you know, but it would not 
work.” 

Ashmead amused Vizard, and he 
took him into his study, and had some 
more conversation with him. He even 
asked him to stay in the house; but 
Ashmead was shy, and there was a 
theatre at Taddington. So he said 
he had a good deal of business to do ; 
he had better make the “ Swan ” his 
head-quarters. “I shall be at your 
service all the same, sir, or Mademoi- 
selle Klosking’s.” 

“Have a glass of Madeira, Mr. 
Ashmead.” 

“ Well, sir, to tell the truth, I have 
had one or two.” 

“Then it knows the road.” 

“You are very good, sir. What 
Madeira! Is this the wine the doc- 
tors ran down a few years ago ? They 
couldn’t have tasted it.” 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


“Well, it is like ourselves, improved 
by traveling. That has been twice to 
India.” 

“ It will never go again, past me,” 
said Ashmead, gayly. “My mouth 
is a cape it will never weather.” 

He went to his inn. 

Before he had been there ten min- 
utes, up rattled a smart servant in a 
smart dog-cart. 

“Hamper — for Joseph Ashmead, 
Esquire.” 

“Any thing to pay?” 

“What for? — it’s from Vizard 
Court.” 

And the dog-cart rattled away. 

Joseph was in the hall, and wit- 
nessed this phenomenon. He said to 
himself, “I wish I had a vast ac- 
quaintance — ALL COUNTRY GENTLE- 
MEN.” 

That afternoon Ina Klosking in- 
sisted on walking up and down the 
room, supported by Mademoiselles 
Gale and Dover. The result was fa- 
tigue and sleep ; that is all. 

“To-morrow,” said she, “I will 
have but one live crutch. I must and 
will recover my strength.” 

In the evening she insisted on both 
ladies dining with Mr. Vizard. Here, 
too, she had her way. 

Vizard was in very good spirits, 
and, when the servants were gone, 
complimented Miss Gale on her skill. 

“ Our skill, you mean,” said she. 
“It was you who prescribed this new 
medicine of the mind, the psalms and 
hymns and spiritual songs ; and it was 
you who administered the Ashmead, 
and he made her laugh, or nearly — 
and that we have never been able to 
do. She must take a few grains of 
Ashmead every day. The worst of it 
is, I am afraid we shall cure her too 
quickly; and then we shall lose her. 
But that was to be expected. I am 
very unfortunate in my attachments ; 
I always was. If I fall in love with a 
woman, she is sure to hate me, or else 
die, or else fly away. I love this one 
to distraction, so she is sure to desert 


197 

me, because she couldn’t misbehave, 
and I won’t let her die.” 

“Well,” said Vizard, “you know 
what to do — retard the cure. That is 
one of the arts of your profession.” 

“And so it is ; but how can I, when 
I love her? No, we must have re- 
course to our benevolent tyrant again. 
He must get Miss Vizard back here, 
before my goddess is well enough to 
spread her wings and fly.” 

Vizard looked puzzled. “This,” 
said he, “sounds like a riddle, or fe- 
male logic.” 

“It is both,” said Rhoda. “ Miss 
Dover, give him the mot d'e'nigme. 
I’m off — to the patient I adore.” 

She vanished swiftly, and Vizard 
looked to Fanny for a solution. But 
Fanny seemed rather vexed with Miss 
Gale, and said nothing. Then he 
pressed her to explain. 

She answered him, with a certain 
reluctance, “Mademoiselle Klosking 
has taken into her head that Zoe will 
never return to this house while she 
is in it.” 

‘ 4 Who put that into her head, now ?” 
said Vizard, bitterly. 

‘ ‘ Nobody, upon my honor. A wom- 
an’s instinct.” 

“ Well ?” 

“ She is horrified at the idea of keep- 
ing your sister out of her own house, 
so she is getting well to go ; and the 
strength of her will is such that she 
will get well.” 

“All the better; but Zoe will soon 
get tired of Somerville Villa. A lit- 
tle persuasion will bring her home, 
especially if you were to offer to take 
her place.” 

“Oh, I would do that, to oblige 
you, Harrington, if I saw any good at 
the end of it. But please think twice. 
How can Zoe and that lady ever stay 
under the same roof? How can they 
meet at your table, and speak to each 
other? They are rivals.” 

“They are both getting cured, and 
neither will ever see the villain again. ” 

“I hope not; but who can tell? 
Well, never mind them. If their eyes 


198 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


are not opened by this time, they will 
get no pity from me. It is you I think 
of now.” Then, in a hesitating way, 
and her cheeks mantling higher and 
higher with honest blushes — “You 
have suffered enough already from 
women. I know it is not my busi- 
ness, but it does grieve me to see you 
going into trouble again. What good 
can come of it ? Her connection with 
that man, so recent, and so — strange. 
The world will interpret its own way. 
Your position in the county — every 
eye upon you. I see the way in — no 
doubt it is strewed with flowers; but 
I see no way out. Be brave in time, 
Harrington. It will not be the first 
time. She must be a good woman, 
somehow, or faces, eyes, and voices, 
and ways, are all a lie. But if she is 
good, she is very unfortunate ; and she 
will give you a sore heart for life, if 
you don’t mind. I’d clench my teeth 
and shut my eyes, and let her go in 
time.” 

Vizard groaned aloud, and at that a 
tear or two rolled down Fanny’s burn- 
ing cheeks. 

“You are a good little girl,” said 
Vizard, affectionately; “but I can 
not." 

He hung his head despondently, and 
muttered, “ I see no way out either. 
But I yield to fate. I feared her, and 
fled from her. She has followed me. 
I can resist no more. I drift. Some 
men never know happiness. I shall 
have had a happy fortnight, at all 
events. I thank you, and respect you 
for your advice; but I can’t take it. 
So now I suppose you will be too much 
offended to oblige me.” 

“ Oh dear, no.” 

“Would you mind writing to Aunt 
Maitland, and saying you would like 
to take Zoe’s place?” 

“I will do it with pleasure to oblige 
you. Besides, it will be a fib, and it 
is so long since I have told a good fib. 
When shall I write?” 

“Oh, about the end of the week.” 

“Yes, that will be time enough. 
Miss Gale won’t let her go till next 


week. Ah, after all, how nice and 
natural it is to be naughty ! Fibs and 
flirtation, welcome home ! This is the 
beauty of being good — and I shall 
recommend it to all my friends on this 
very account — you can always leave 
it off at a moment’s notice, without 
any trouble. Now, naughtiness sticks 
to you like a burr.” 

So, with no more ado, this new 
Mentor became Vizard’s accomplice, 
and they agreed to get Zoe back be- 
fore the Klosking could get strong 
enough to move with her physician’s 
consent. 

As the hamper of Madeira was land- 
ed in the hall of the “Swan” inn, a 
genial voice cried, “You are in luck.” 
Ashmead turned, and there was Poi- 
kilus peering at him from the door- 
way of the commercial room. 

“ What is the game now?” thought 
Ashmead. But what he said was, 
“ Why, I know that face. I declare, 
it is the gent that treated me at Hom- 
burg. Bring in the hamper, Dick.” 
Then to Poikilus, “Have ye dined 
yet?” 

“ No. Going to dine in half an 
hour. Roast gosling. Just enough 
for two.” 

“We’ll divide it, if you like, and 
I’ll stand a bottle of old Madeira. 
My old friend, Squire Vizard, has just 
sent it me. I’ll just have a splash ; 
dinner will be ready by then.” He 
bustled out of the room, but said, as 
he went, “I say, old man, open the 
hamper, and put two bottles just with- 
in the smile of the fire.” 

He then went upstairs, and plunged 
his head in cold water, to clear his 
faculties for the encounter. 

The friends sat down to dinner, and 
afterward to the Madeira, both gay 
and genial outside, but within full of 
design — their object being to pump 
each other. 

In the encounter at Homburg, Ash- 
mead had an advantage; Poikilus 
thought himself unknown to Ashmead. 
But this time there was a change. 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


199 


Poikilus knew by this time that La 
Klosking had gone to Vizard Court. 
How she had know’ll Severne was 
there puzzled him a good deal ; but 
he had ended by suspecting Ash mead, 
in a rague way. 

The parties, therefore, met on even 
terms. Ashmead resolved to learn 
what he could about Severne, and Poi- 
kilus to learn what he could about Zoe 
Vizard and Mademoiselle Klosking. 

Ashmead opened the ball: “Been 
long here ?” 

“Just come.” 

“ Business?” 

“Yes. Want to see if there’s any 
chance of my getting paid for that 
job.” 

“What job?” 

“Why, the Homburg job. Look 
here — I don’t know why I should have 
any secrets from a good fellow like 
vou ; only you must not tell any body 
else.” 

“Oh, honor bright!” 

“ Well, then, I am a detective.” 

“ Ye don’t mean that ?” 

“I’m Poikilus.” 

“Good heavens! Well, I don’t 
care. I haven’t murdered any body. 
Here’s your health, Poikilus. I say, 
you could tell a tale or two.” 

“That 1 could. But I’m out of 
luck this time. The gentleman that 
employed me has mizzled, and he 
promised me fifty pounds. I came 
down here in hopes of finding him. 
Saw him once in this neighborhood.” 

“Well, you won’t find him here, I 
don’t think. You must excuse me, 
but your employer is a villain. He 
has knocked a lady down, and nearly 
killed her.” 

“You don’t say that?” 

“Yes; that beautiful lady, the 
singer, you saw in Homburg.” 

“What! the lady that said he should 
have his money?” 

“The same.” 

“Why, he must be mad.” 

“No. A scoundrel. That is all.” 

“Then she won’t give him his mon- 
ey after that.” 


“ Not if I can help it. But if she 
likes to pay you your commission, I 
shall not object to that.” 

‘ ‘ You are a good fellow.” 

“What is more, I shall see her to- 
morrow, and I will put the question 
to her for you. ” 

Poikilus was profuse in his thanks, 
and said he began to think it was his 
only chance. Then he had a misgiv- 
ing. “I have no claim on the lady,” 
said he; “and I am afraid I have 
been a bad friend to her. I did not 
mean it, though, and the whole affair 
is dark to me.” 

“You are not very sharp then, for 
a detective,” said Ashmead. “Well, 
shut your mouth and open your eyes. 
Your Mr. Severne was the lady’s lov- 
er, and preyed upon her. He left 
her; she was fool enough to love him 
still, and pined for him. He is a 
gambler, and was gambling by my 
side when Mademoiselle Klosking 
came in ; so he cut his lucky, and left 
me fifty pounds to play for him, and 
she put the pot on, and broke the 
bank. I didn’t know who he was, but 
we found it out by his photograph. 
Then you came smelling after the 
money, and we sold you nicely, my fine 
detective. We made it our business 
to know where you wrote to — Vizard 
Court. She went down there, and 
found him just going to be married to 
a beautiful young lady. She collared 
him. He flung her down and cut her 
temple open — nearly killed her. She 
lies ill in the house, and the other 
young lady is gone away broken-heart- 
ed.” 

“ Where to ?” 

“How should I know? What is 
that to you ?” 

“Why, don’t you see? Wherever 
she is, he won’t be far off. He likes 
her best, don’t he?” 

“It don’t follow that she likes him, 
now she has found him out. He had 
better not go after her, or he’ll get a 
skinful of broken bones. My friend, 
Squire Vizard, is the man to make 
short work with him, if he caught 


200 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


the blackguard spooning after his sis- 
ter.” 

“And serve him right. Still, I 
wish I knew where that young lady 
is.” 

‘ ‘ I dare say I could learn if I made 
it my business.” 

Having brought the matter to that 
point, Poikilus left it, and simply made 
iiimself agreeable. He told Ashmead 
his experiences ; and as they were, 
many of them, strange and dramatic, 
he kept him a delighted listener till 
midnight. 

The next day Ashmead visited 
Mademoiselle Klosking, and found 
her walking up and down the room, 
with her hand on Miss Gale’s shoulder. 

She withdrew into the embrasure, 
and had some confidential talk with 
him. As a matter of course, he told 
her about Poikilus, and that he was 
hunting down Severne for his money. 

“Indeed!” said the Klosking. 
“Please tell me every word that 
passed between you.” 

He did so, as nearly as he could 
remember. 

Mademoiselle Klosking leaned her 
brow upon her hand a considerable 
time in thought. Then she turned 
on Ashmead, and said, quietly, “ That 
Poikilus is still acting for him , and 
the one thing they desire to learn is 
where to find Miss Vizard, and delude 
her to her ruin. ” 

“No, no,” cried Ashmead, violent- 
ly ; but the next moment his coun- 
tenance fell. “You are wiser than 
I am,” said he; “it may be. Con- 
found the sneak! I’ll give it him 
next time I see him ! Why, he must 
love villainy for its own sake. I as 
good as said you would pay him his 
fifty pounds.” 

“What fifty pounds? His fifty 
pounds is a falsehood, like himself. 
Now, my friend, please take my in- 
structions, my positive instructions. ” 

“Yes, madam.” 

“You will not change your friend- 
ly manner : show no suspicion nor 
anger. If they are cunning, we must 


be wise; and the wise always keep 
their temper. You will say Miss 
Vizard has gone to Ireland, but to 
what part is only known to her broth- 
er. Tell him this, and be very free 
and communicative on all other sub- 
jects ; for this alone has any impor- 
tance now. As for me, I can easily 
learn where Somerville Villa is, and 
in a day or two shall send you to look 
after her. One thing is clear — I had 
better lose no time in recovering my 
strength. Well, my will is strong. 
I will lose no time — your arm, mon- 
sieur;” and she resumed her prome- 
nade. 

Ashmead, instructed as above, 
dined again with the detective ; but 
out of revenge gave him but one bot- 
tle of Madeira. As they sipped it, he 
delivered a great many words; and 
in the middle of them said, “Oh, 
by-the-bye, I asked after that poor 
young lady. Gone to Ireland, but 
they didn’t know what part.” 

After dinner Ashmead went to the 
theatre. When he came back Poiki- 
lus was gone. 

So did Wisdom baffle Cunning that 
time. 

But Cunning did not really leave 
the field : that very evening an aged 
man, in green spectacles, was inquir- 
ing about the postal arrangements to 
Vizard Court ; and next day he might 
have been seen, in a back street of Tad- 
dington, talking to the village post- 
man, and afterward drinking with him. 
It was Poikilus groping his way. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

A few words avail to describe the 
sluggish waters of the Dead Sea, but 
what pen can portray the Indian Ocean 
lashed and tormented by a cyclone ? 

Even so a few words have sufficed 
to show that Ina Ivlosking’s heart 
was all benumbed and deadened ; 
and, with the help of insult, treach- 
ery, loss of blood, brain -fever, and 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


201 


self-esteem rebelling against villainy, 
had outlived its power of suffering 
poignant torture. 

But I can not sketch in a few 
words, nor paint in many, the tem- 
pest of passion in Zoe Vizard. Yet 
it is my duty to try and give the read- 
er some little insight into the agony, 
the changes, the fury, the grief, the 
tempest of passion, in a virgin heart ; 
in such a nature, the great passions 
of the mind often rage as fiercely, or 
even more so, than in older and ex- 
perienced women. 

Literally, Zoe Vizard loved Edward 
Severne one minute and hated him 
the next; gave him up for a traitor, 
and then vowed to believe nothing 
until she had heard his explanation ; 
burned with ire at his silence, sicken- 
ed with dismay at his silence. Then, 
for a while, love and faith would get 
the upper hand, and she would be 
quite calm. Why should she tor- 
ment herself? An old sweetheart, 
abandoned long ago, had come be- 
tween them ; he had, unfortunately, 
done the woman an injury, in his 
wild endeavor to get away from her. 
Well, what business had she to use 
force ? No doubt he was ashamed, 
afflicted at what he had done, being a 
man ; or was in despair, seeing that 
lady installed in her brother’s house, 
and her story, probably a parcel of 
falsehoods, listened to. 

Then she would have a gleam of 
joy ; for she knew he had not written 
to Ina Klosking. But soon Despond- 
ency came down like a dark cloud ; 
for she said to herself, “ He has left 
us both. He sees the woman he does 
not love will not let him have the one 
he does love ; and so he has lost heart, 
and will have no more to say to ei- 
ther.” 

When her thoughts took this turn 
she would cry piteously ; but not for 
long. She would dry her eyes, and 
burn with wrath all round ; she would 
still hate her rival, but call her lover 
a coward — a contemptible coward. 

After her day of raging, and griev- 
9 * 


ing, and doubting, and fearing, and 
hoping, and despairing, night over- 
took her with an exhausted body, a 
bleeding heart, and weeping eyes. 
She had been so happy — on the very 
brink of paradise ; and now she was 
deserted. Her pillow was wet every 
night. She cried in her very sleep ; 
and when she woke in the morning 
her body was always quivering ; and 
in the very act of waking came a hor- 
ror, and an instinctive reluctance to 
face the light that was to bring anoth- 
er day of misery. 

Such is a fair, though loose, descrip- 
tion of her condition. 

The slight fillip given to her spirits 
by the journey did her a morsel of 
good, but it died away. Having to 
nurse Aunt Maitland did her a little 
good at first. But she soon relapsed 
into herself, and became so distraite 
that Aunt Maitland, who was all self, 
being an invalid, began to speak sharp- 
ly to her. 

On the second day of her visit to 
Somerville Villa, as she sat brooding 
at the foot of her aunt’s bed, sudden- 
ly she heard horses’ feet, and then a 
ring at the hall -door. Her heart 
leaped. Perhaps he had come to ex- 
plain all. He might not choose to 
go to Vizard Court. What if he had 
been watching as anxiously as her- 
self, and had seized the first oppor- 
tunity ! In a moment her pale cheek 
rivaled carmine. 

The girl brought up a card — 

“Lord Uxmoor.” 

The color died away directly. ‘ ‘ Say 
I am very sorry, but at this moment I 
can not leave my aunt.” 

The girl stared with amazement, 
and took down the message. 

Uxmoor rode away. 

Zoe felt a moment’s pleasure. No, 
if she could not see the right man, 
she would not see the wrong. That, 
at least, was in her power. 

Nevertheless, in the course of the 
day, remembering Uxmoor’s worth, 
and the pain she had already given 


202 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


him, she was almost sorry she had in- 
dulged herself at his expense. 

Superfluous contrition! He came 
next day, as a matter of course. She 
liked him none the better for coming, 
but she went down-stairs to him. 

He came toward her, but started 
back and uttered an exclamation. 
“You are not well,” he said, in tones 
of tenderness and dismay. 

“Not very,” she faltered; for his 
open, manly concern touched her. 

“ And you have come here to nurse 
this old lady ? Indeed, Miss Vizard, 
you need nursing yourself. You know 
it is some time since I had the pleasure 
of seeing you, and the change is alarm- 
ing. May I send you Dr. Atkins, my 
mother’s physician ?” 

“I am much obliged to you. No.” 

“ Oh, I forgot. You have a physi- 
cian of your own sex. Why is she 
not looking after you?” 

“Miss Gale is better employed. 
She is at Vizard Court in attendance 
on a far more brilliant person — Made- 
moiselle Klosking, a professional sing- 
er. Perhaps you know her ?” 

“ I saw her at Homburg.” 

“Well, she met with an accident 
in our hall — a serious one ; and Har- 
rington took her in, and has placed all 
his resources — his lady physician and 
all — at her service : he is so fond of 
Music." 

A certain satirical bitterness peer- 
ed through these words, but honest 
Uxmoor did not notice it. He said, 
“Then I wish you would let me be 
your doctor — for want of a better.” 

“And you think you can cure me?” 
said Zoe, satirically. 

“It does seem presumptuous. 
But, at least, I could do you a little 
good if you could be got to try my 
humble prescription.” 

“What is it?” asked Zoe, listless- 

“It is my mare Phillis. She is 
the delight of every lady who mounts 
her. She is thorough - bred, lively, 
swift, gentle, docile, amiable, perfect. 
Ride her on these downs an hour or 


two every day. I’ll send her over to- 
morrow. May I ?” 

“ If you like. Rosa would pack up 
my riding-habit.” 

“ Rosa was a prophetess.” 

Next day came Phillis, saddled, and 
led by a groom on horseback, and Ux- 
moor soon followed on an old hunter. 
He lifted Zoe to her saddle, and away 
they rode, the groom following at a 
respectful distance. 

When they got on the downs they 
had a delightful canter; but Zoe, in 
her fevered state of mind, was not 
content with that. She kept increas- 
ing the pace, till the old hunter could 
no longer live with the young filly ; 
and she galloped away from Lord Ux- 
moor, and made him ridiculous in the 
eyes of his groom. 

The truth is, she wanted to get 
away from him. 

He drew the rein, and stood stock- 
still. She made a circuit of a mile, 
and came up to him with heightened 
color and flashing eyes, looking beau- 
tiful. 

“Well?” said she. “Don’t you 
like galloping ?” 

“Yes, but I don’t like cruelty.” 

“ Cruelty !” 

“Look at the mare’s tail how it is 
quivering, and her flanks panting ! 
And no wonder. You have been over 
twice the Derby course at a racing 
pace. Miss Vizard, a horse is not a 
steam-engine.” 

“I’ll never ride her again,” said 
Zoe. “I did not come here to be 
scolded. I will go home.” 

They walked slowly home in si- 
lence. Uxmoor hardly knew what to 
say to her ; but at last he murmured, 
apologetically, “Never mind the poor 
mare, if you are any better for gallop- 
ing her.” 

She waited a moment before she 
spoke, and then she said, “Well, yes; 
I am better. I’m better for my ride, 
and better for my scolding. Good- 
bye.” (Meaning forever.) 

“Good-bye,” said he, in the same 


203 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


tone. Only he sent the mare next 
day, and followed her on a young thor- 
ough-bred. 

“ What !” said Zoe ; “ am I to have 
another trial ?” 

“And another after that.” 

So this time she would only canter 
very slowly, and kept stopping every 
now and then to inquire, satirically, 
if that would distress the mare. 

But Uxmoor was too good-humor- 
ed to quarrel for nothing. He only 
laughed, and said, “You are not the 
only lady who takes a horse for a ma- 
chine.” 

These rides did her bodily health 
some permanent good ; but their effect 
on her mind was fleeting. She was 
in fair spirits when she was actually 
bounding through the air, but she col- 
lapsed afterward. 

At first, when she used to think 
that Severne never came near her, 
and Uxmoor was so constant, she al- 
most hated Uxmoor — so little does 
the wrong man profit by doing the 
right thing for a woman. I admit 
that, though not a deadly woman-hater 
myself. 

But by-and-by she was impartially 
bitter against them both ; the wrong 
man for doing the right thing, and the 
right man for not doing it. 

As the days rolled by, and Severne 
did not appear, her indignation and 
wounded pride began to mount above 
her love. A beautiful woman counts 
upon pursuit, and thinks a man less 
than man if he does not love her well 
enough to find her, though hid in the 
caves of ocean or the labyrinths of 
Bermondsey. 

She said to herself, “Then he has 
no explanation to offer. Another 
woman has frightened him away from 
me. I have wasted my affections on 
a coward.” Her bosom boiled with 
love, and contempt, and wounded 
pride ; and her mind was tossed to 
and fro like a leaf in a storm. She 
began, by force of will, to give Ux- 
moor some encouragement ; only, aft- 
er it she writhed and wept. 


At last, finding herself driven to 
and fro like a leaf, she told Miss 
Maitland all, and sought counsel of 
her. She must have something to 
lean on. 

The old lady was better by this 
time, and spoke kindly to her. She 
said Mr. Severne was charming, and 
she was not bound to give him up be- 
cause another lady had past claims 
on him. But it appeared to her that 
Mr. Severne himself had deserted her. 
He had not written to her. Probably 
he knew something that had not yet 
transpired, and had steeled himself to 
the separation for good reasons. It 
was a decision she must accept. Let 
her then consider how forlorn is the 
condition of most deserted women 
compared with hers. Here was a de- 
voted lover, whom she esteemed, and 
who could offer her a high position 
and an honest love. If she had a 
mother, that mother would almost 
force her to engage herself at once to 
Lord Uxmoor. Having no mother, 
the best thing she could do would be 
to force herself — to say some irrevoca- 
ble words, and never look back. It 
was the lot of her sex not to marry 
the first love, and to be all the hap- 
pier in the end for that disappoint- 
ment, though at the time it always 
seemed eternal. 

All this, spoken in a voice of singu- 
lar kindness by one who used to be so 
sharp, made Zoe’s tears flow gently, 
and somewhat cooled her raging heart. 

She began now to submit, and only 
cry at intervals, and let herself drift ; 
and Uxmoor visited her every day, 
and she found it impossible not to es- 
teem and regard him. 

Nevertheless, one afternoon, just 
about his time, she was seized with 
such an aversion to his courtship, and 
such a revolt against the slope she 
seemed gliding down, that she flung 
on her bonnet and shawl, and darted 
out of the house to escape him. She 
said to the servant, “ I am gone for a 
walk, if any body calls.” 

Uxmoor did call, and, receiving this 


204 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


message, he bit his lip, sent the horse 
home, and walked up to the windmill, 
on the chance of seeing her anywhere. 
He had already observed she was nev- 
er long in one mood ; and as he was 
always in the same mind, he thought 
perhaps he might be tolerably wel- 
come, if he could meet her unex- 
pected. 

Meantime Zoe walked very fast to 
get away from the house as soon as 
possible, and she made a round of 
nearly five miles, walking through two 
villages, and on her return lost her 
way. However, a shepherd showed 
her a bridle-road which, he told her, 
would soon take her to Somerville 
Villa, through “the small pastures;” 
and, accordingly, she came into a suc- 
cession of meadows not very large. 
They were all fenced and gated ; but 
the gates were only shut, not locked. 
This was fortunate; for they were 
new five-barred gates, and a lady does 
not like getting over these even in sol- 
itude. Her clothes are not adapted. 

There were sheep in some of these, 
cows in others, and the pastures won- 
derfully green and rich, being always 
well manured, and fed down by cattle. 

Zoe’s love of color was soothed by 
these emerald fields, dotted with white 
sheep and red cows. 

In the last field, before the lane that 
led to the village, a single beast was 
grazing. Zoe took no notice of him, 
and walked on ; but he took wonder- 
ful notice of her, and stared, then gave 
a disagreeable snort. He took offense 
at her Indian shawl, and, after paw- 
ing the ground and erecting his tail, 
he came straight at her at a tearing 
trot, and his tail out behind him. 

Zoe saw, and screamed violently, 
and ran for the gate ahead, which, of 
course, was a few yards farther from 
her than the gate behind. She ran 
for her life ; but the bull, when he saw 
that, broke into a gallop directly, and 
came up fast with her. She could not 
escape. 

At that moment a man vaulted clean 
over the gate, tore a pitchfork out of 


a heap of dung that luckily stood in 
the corner, and boldly confronted the 
raging bull just in time ; for at that 
moment Zoe lost heart, and crouched, 
screaming, in the side ditch, with her 
hands before her eyes. 

The new-comer, rash as his conduct 
seemed, was country-bred, and knew 
what he was about : he drove a prong 
clean through the great cartilage of 
the bull’s mouth, and was knocked 
down like a nine-pin, with the broken 
staff of the pitchfork in his hand ; and 
the bull reared in the air with agony, 
the prong having gone clean through 
his upper lip in two places, and fast- 
ened itself, as one fastens a pin, in that 
leathery but sensitive organ. 

Now Uxmoor was a university ath- 
lete ; he was no sooner down than up. 
So, when the bull came down from his 
rearing, and turned to massacre his as- 
sailant, he was behind him, and seiz- 
ing his tail, twisted it, and delivered a 
thundering blow on his backbone, and 
followed it up by a shower of them on 
his ribs. “Run to the gate, Zoe!” 
he roared. Whack ! whack ! whack ! 
— “Run to the gate, I tell you!” — 
whack ! — whack ! — whack ! — whack ! 
— whack ! 

Thus ordered, Zoe Vizard, who 
would not have moved of herself, be- 
ing in a collapse of fear, scudded to 
the gate, got on the right side of it, 
and looked over, with two eyes like 
saucers. She saw a sight incredible 
to her. Instead of letting the bull 
alone, now she was safe, Uxmoor was 
sticking to him like a ferret. The bull 
ran, tossing his nose with pain, and 
bellowing: Uxmoor, dragged by the 
tail, and compelled to follow in pre- 
posterous, giant strides, barely touch- 
ing the ground with the point of his 
toe, pounded the creature’s ribs with 
such blows as Zoe had never dreamed 
possible. They sounded like flail on 
wooden floor, and each blow was ac- 
companied with a loud jubilant shout. 
Presently, being a five’s player, and 
ambidexter, he shifted his hand, and 
the tremendous whacks resounded on 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


205 


the bull’s left side. The bull, thus be- 
labored, and resounding like the big 
drum, made a circuit of the field, but 
found it all too hot : he knew his way 
to a certain quiet farm-yard ; he bolted, 
and came bang at Zoe once more, with 
furious eyes and gore- distilling nos- 
trils. 

But this time she was on the right 
side of the gate. 

Yet she drew back in dismay as 
the bull drew near : and she was right ; 
for, in his agony and amazement, the 
unwieldy but sinewy brute leaped the 
five-barred gate, and cleared it all but 
the top rail ; that he burst through, as 
if it had been paper, and dragged Ux- 
moor after him, and pulled him down, 
and tore him some yards along the 
hard road on his back, and bumped 
his head against a stone, and so got 
rid of him : then pounded away down 
the lane, snorting, and bellowing, and 
bleeding ; the prong still stuck through 
his nostrils like a pin. 

Zoe ran to Uxmoor with looks of 
alarm and tender concern, and lifted 
his head to her tender bosom ; for his 
clothes were torn, and his cheeks and 
hands bleeding. But he soon shook 
off his confusion, and rose without as- 
sistance. 

‘ ‘ Have you got over your fright ?” 
said he; “that is the question.” 

“ Oh yes ! yes ! It is only you I 
am alarmed for. It is much better I 
should be killed than you.” 

“Killed! I never had better fun 
in my life. It was glorious. I stuck 
to him, and hit— there, I have not 
had any thing I could hit as hard as I 
wanted to, since I used to fight with 
my cousin Jack at Eton. Oh, Miss 
Vizard, it was a whirl of Elysium ! 
But I am sorry you were frightened. 
Let me take you home.” 

“Oh ves, but not that way; that 
is the way the monster went!” quiv- 
ered Zoe. 

“ Oh, he has had enough of us.” 

“ But I have had too much of him. 
Take me some other road — a hundred 
miles round. How I tremble !” 


“So you do. Take my arm. — No, 
putting the tips of your fingers on it 
is no use ; take it really — you want 
support. Be courageous, now — we 
are very near home. ” 

Zoe trembled, and cried a little, 
to conclude the incident, but walked 
bravely home on Uxmoor’s arm. 

In the hall at Somerville Villa she 
saw him change color, and insisted 
on his taking some Port-wine. 

“ I shall be very glad,” said he. 

A decanter was brought. He filled 
a large tumbler and drank it off like 
water. 

This was the first intimation he gave 
Zoe that he was in pain, and his nerves 
hard tried; nor did she indeed arrive 
at that conclusion until he had left her. 

Of course, she carried all this to 
Aunt Maitland. That lady was quite 
moved by the adventure. She sat up 
in bed, and listened with excitement 
and admiration. She descanted on 
Lord Uxmoor’s courage and chivalry, 
and congratulated Zoe that such a 
pearl of manhood had fallen at her 
feet. “ Why, child,” said she, “ sure- 
ly, after this, you will not hesitate be- 
tween this gentleman and a beggarly 
adventurer, who has nothing, not even 
the courage of a man. Turn your 
back on all such rubbish, and be the 
queen of the county. I’d be content 
to die to-morrow if I could see you 
Countess of Uxmoor.” 

“You shall live, and see it, dear 
aunt,” said Zoe, kissing her. 

“Well,” said Miss Maitland, “if 
any thing can cure me, that will. 
And really,” said she, “I feel better 
ever since that brave fellow began to 
bring you to your senses.” 

Admiration and gratitude being 
now added to esteem, Zoe received 
Lord Uxmoor next day with a certain 
timidity and half tenderness she had 
never shown before ; and, as he was 
by nature a rapid wooer, he saw his 
chance, and staid much longer than 
usual, and at last hazarded a hope 
that he might be allowed to try and 
win her heart. 


206 


A WOMAN-IIATER. 


Thereupon she began to fence, and 
say that love was all folly. He had 
her esteem and her gratitude, and it 
would be better for both of them to 
confine their sentiments within those 
rational bounds. 

“ That I can not do,” said Uxmoor ; 
“so I must ask your leave to be am- 
bitious. Let me try and conquer your 
affection. ” 

“As you conquered the bull?” 

“ Yes ; only not so rudely, nor so 
quickly, I’ll be bound.” 

44 Well, I don’t know why I should 
object. I esteem you more than any 
body in the world. You are my beau 
ideal of a man. If you can make me 
love you, all the better for me. Only, 
I am afraid you can not.” 

“ May I try.” 

“Yes,” said Zoe, blushing carna- 
tion. 

‘ • May I come every day ?” 

“Twice a day, if you like.” 

“ I think I shall succeed — in time.” 

“ I hope you may.” 

Then he kissed her hand devotedly 
• — the first time in his life — and went 
away on wings. 

Zoe flew up to her Aunt Maitland, 
flushed and agitated. “Aunt, I am 
as good as engaged to him. I have 
said such unguarded things. I’m 
sure he will understand it that I con- 
sent to receive his addresses as my 
lover. Not that I really said so.” 

“ I hope,” said Aunt Maitland, 
“that you have committed yourself 
somehow or other, and can not go 
back.” 

“I think I have. Yes; it is all 
over. I can not go back now.” 

Then she burst out crying. Then 
she was near choking, and had to 
smell her aunt’s salts, while still the 
tears ran fast. 

Miss Maitland received this with 
perfect composure. She looked on 
them as the last tears of regret given 
to a foolish attachment at the mo- 
ment of condemning it forever. She 
was old, and had seen these final tears 
shed by more than one loving woman 


just before entering on her day of 
sunshine. 

And now Zoe must be alone, and 
vent her swelling heart. She tied a 
handkerchief round her head and dart- 
ed into the garden. She went. round 
and round it with fleet foot and beat- 
ing pulses. 

The sun began to decline, and a 
cold wind to warn her in. She came, 
for the last time, to a certain turn of 
the gravel walk, where there was a 
little iron gate leading into the wood- 
ed walk from the meadows. 

At that gate she found a man. She 
started back, and leaned against the 
nearest tree, with her hands behind 
her. 

It was Edward Severne — all in 
black, and pale as death ; but not 
paler than her own face turned in a 
moment. 

Indeed, they looked at each other 
like two ghosts. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

Zoe was the first to speak, or rath- 
er to gasp. “Why do you come 
here ?” 

“ Because you are here.” 

4 4 And how dare you come where I 
am ? — now your falsehood is found out 
and flung into my very face!” 

“I have never been false to you. 
At this moment I sutler for my fidel- 
ity.” 

44 You suffer? I am glad of it. 
How?” 

44 In many ways : but they are all 
light, compared with my fear of los- 
ing your love.” 

“I will listen to no idle words,” 
said Zoe, sternly. “A lady claimed 
you before my face ; why did you not 
stand firm like a man, and say, 4 You 
have no claim on me now; I have 
a right to love another, and I do?’ 
Why did you fly ? — because you were 
guilty.” 

“No,” said he, doggedly. “Sur- 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


207 


prised and confounded, but not guilty. 
Fool! idiot! that I was. I lost my 
head entirely. Yes, it is hopeless. 
You must despise me. You have a 
right to despise me.” 

“Don’t tell me,” said Zoe ; “you 
never lose your head. You are always 
self-possessed and artful. Would to 
Heaven I had never seen you!” She 
was violent. 

He gave her time. “ Zoe, ” said he, 
after a while, “if I had not lost my 
head, should I have ill-treated a lady 
and nearly killed her?” 

“Alt!” said Zoe, sharply, “that is 
what you have been suffering from — 
remorse. And well you may. You 
ought to go back to her, and ask her 
pardon on your knees. Indeed, it is 
all you have left to do now.” 

“ I know I ought.” 

“ Then do what vou ought. Good- 
bye.” 

“I can not. I hate her.” 

“ What, because you have broken 
her heart, and nearly killed her?” 

“No; but because she has come 
between me and the only woman I 
ever really loved, or ever can.” 

“She would not have done that if 
you had not given her the right. I 
see her now ; she looked justice, and 
you looked guilt. Words are idle, 
when I can see her face before me 
still. No woman could look like that 
who was in the wrong. But you — 
guilt made you a coward : you were 
false to her and false to me ; and so 
you ran away from us both. You 
would have talked either of us over, 
alone ; but we were together : so you 
ran away. You have found me alone 
now, so you are brave again ; but it is 
too late. I am undeceived. I decline 
to rob Mademoiselle Klosking of her 
lover; so good-bye.” 

And this time she was really going, 
but he stopped her. “At least don’t 
go with a falsehood on your lips,” said 
he, coldlv. 

“A falsehood!— Me!” 

“ Yes, it is a falsehood. How can 
you pretend I left that lady for you, 


when you know rr,y connection with 
her had entirely ceased ten months 
before I ever saw your face ?” 

This staggered Zoe a moment; so 
did the heat and sense of'injustice he 
threw into his voice. 

“I forgot that,” said she, naively. 
Then, recovering herself, “You may 
have parted with her ; but it does not 
follow that she consented. Fickle 
men desert constant women. It is 
done every day.” 

“ You are mistaken again,” said he. 
“When I first saw you, I had ceased 
to think of Mademoiselle Klosking ; 
but it was not so when I first left her. 
I did not desert her. I tore myself 
from her. I had a great affection for 
her.” 

“ You dare to tell me that. Well, 
at all events, it is the truth. Why did 
you leave her, then ?” 

“ Out of self-respect. I was poor, 
she was rich and admired. Men sent 
her bouquets and bracelets, and flat- 
tered her behind the scenes, and I was 
lowered in my own eyes : so I left her. 
I was unhappy for a time ; but I had 
my pride to support me, and the 
wound was healed long before I knew 
what it was to love, really to love.” 

There was nothing here that Zoe 
could contradict. She kept silence, 
and was mystified. 

Then she attacked him on another 
quarter. “Have you written to her 
since vou behaved like a ruffian to 
her ?” * 

“ No. And I never will, come what 
may. It is wicked of me ; but I hate 
her. I am compelled to esteem her. 
But I hate her.” 

Zoe could quite understand that; 
but in spite of that she said, “ Of 
course you do. Men always hate those 
they have used ill. Why did you not 
write to me ? Had a mind to be im- 
partial, I suppose?” 

“I had reason to believe it would 
have been intercepted.” 

“ For shame ! Vizard is incapable 
of such a thing.” 

“Ah, you don’t know how he is 


208 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


changed. He looks on me as a mad 
dog. Consider, Zoe : do, pray, take 
the real key to it all. He is in love 
with Mademoiselle Klosking, madly 
in love with her : and I have been so 
unfortunate as to injure her — nearly 
to kill her. I dare say he thinks it is 
on your account he hates me ; but men 
deceive themselves. It is for her he 
hates me.” 

“Oh!” 

“Ay. Think for a moment, and 
you will see it is. You are not in his 
confidence. I am sure he has never 
told you that he ordered his keepers to 
shoot me down if I came about the 
house at night.” 

* ‘ Oh no, no ! ” cried Zoe. 

“Do you know he has raised the 
country against me, and has warrants 
out against me for forgery, because I 
was taken in by a rogue who gave me 
bills with sham names on them, and I 
got Vizard to cash them ? As soon as 
we found out how I had been tricked, 
my uncle and I offered at once to pay 
him back his money. But no ! he 
prefers to keep the bills as a weapon.” 

Zoe began to be puzzled a little. 
But she said, “You have been a long 
time discovering all these grievances. 
Why have you held no communica- 
tion all this time ?” 

“Because you were inaccessible. 
Does not your own heart tell you that 
I have been all these weeks trying to 
communicate, and unable? Why, I 
came three times under your window 
at night, and you never, never would 
look out.” 

“I did look out ever so often.” 

“If I had been you, I should have 
looked ten thousand times. I only 
left off coming when I heard the keep- 
ers were ordered to shoot me down. 
Not that I should have cared much, 
for I am desperate. But I had just 
sense enough left to see that, if my 
dead body had been brought bleeding 
into your hall some night, none of you 
would ever have been happy again. 
Your eyes would have been opened, 
all of you. Well, Zoe, you left Viz- 


ard Court ; that I learned : but it was 
only this morning I could find out 
where you were gone : and you see I 
am here — with a price upon my head. 
Please read Vizard’s advertisements. ” 

She took them and read them. A 
hot flush mounted to her cheek. 

“You see,” said he, “I am to be 
imprisoned if I set my foot in Bar- 
fordshire. Well, it will be false im- 
prisonment, and Mademoiselle Klos- 
king’s lover will smart for it. At all 
events, I shall take no orders but from 
you. You have been deceived by ap- 
pearances. I shall do all I can to un- 
deceive you, and if I can not, there 
will be no need to imprison me for a 
deceit of which I was the victim, nor 
to shoot me like a dog for loving you. 
I will take my broken heart quietly 
away, and leave Barfordshire, and En- 
gland, and the world, for aught I 
care.” 

Then he cried ; and that made her 
cry directly. 

“Ah !” she sighed, “ we are unfort- 
unate. Appearances are so deceit- 
ful. I see I have judged too hastily, 
and listened too little to my own heart, 
that always made excuses. But it is 
too late now.” 

‘ ‘ Why too late ?” 

“It is.” 

“But why?” 

“It all looked so ugly, and you 
were silent. We are unfortunate. 
My brother would never let us marry ; 
and, besides — Oh, why did you not 
come before ?” 

“I might as well say, Why did you 
not look out of your window? You 
could have done it without risking 
your life, as I did. Or why did you 
not advertise? You might have in- 
vited an explanation from ‘E. S.,’ 
under cover to so-and-so. ” 

“ Ladies never think of such things. 
You know that very well.” 

“Oh, I don’t complain; but I do 
say that those who love should not be 
ready to reproach; they should put 
a generous construction. You might 
have known, and you ought to have 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


209 


known, that I was struggling to find 
you, and torn with anguish at my im- 
potence.” 

“No, no. I am so young and in- 
experienced, and all my friends against 
you. It is they who have parted us.” 

“ How can they part us, if you love 
me still as I love you?” 

“ Because for the last fortnight I 
have not loved you, but hated you, 
and doubted you, and thought my only 
chance of happiness was to imitate 
your indifference: and while I was 
thinking so, another person has come 
forward ; one whom I have always es- 
teemed : and now, in my pity and de- 
spair, I have given him hopes.” She 
hid her burning face in her hands. 

“I see; you are false to me, and 
therefore you have suspected me of 
being false to you. ” 

At that she raised her head high 
directly. “Edward, you are unjust. 
Look in my face, and you may see 
what I have suffered before I could 
bring myself to condemn you.” 

“What! your paleness, that dark 
rim under your lovely eyes — am I the 
cause?” 

“Indeed you are. But I forgive 
you. You are sadly pale and worn 
too. Oh, how unfortunate we are!” 

“Do not cry, dearest,” said he. 
“ Do not despair. Be calm, and let 
me know the worst. I will not re- 
proach you, though you have reproach- 
ed me. ' I love you as no woman can 
love. Come, tell me.” 

“Then the truth is, Lord Uxmoor 
has renewed his attention to me.” 

“Ah!” 

“ He has been here every day.” 

Severn e groaned. 

“Aunt Maitland was on his side, 
and spoke so kindly to me, and he 
saved my life from a furious bull. He 
is brave, noble, good, and he loves me. 
I have committed myself. I can not 
draw back with honor.” 

“But from me you can, because I 
am poor and hated, and have no title. 
If you are committed to him, you are 
engaged to me.” 


“I am; so now I can go neither 
way. If I had poison, I would take 
it this moment, and end all.” 

“For God’s sake, don’t talk so. I 
am sure you exaggerate. You can 
not, in these few days, have pledged 
your faith to another. Let me see 
your finger. Ah ! there’s my ring on 
it still : bless you, my own darling Zoe 
— bless you and he covered her hand 
with kisses, and bedewed it with his 
ever-ready tears. 

The girl began to melt, and all pow- 
er to ooze out of her, mind and body. 
She sighed deeply, and said, “What 
can I do — I don’t say with honor and 
credit, but with decency. What can 
I do?” 

“Tell me, first, what you have said 
to him that you consider so compro- 
mising.” 

Zoe, with many sighs, replied: “I 
believe — I said — I was unhappy. 
And so I was. And I owned — that 
I admired — and esteemed him. And 
so I do. And then of course he 
wanted more, and I could not give 
more ; and he asked might he try 
and make me love him ; and — I said 
— I am afraid I said — he might, if he 
could.” 

“And a very proper answer, too.” 

“Ah! but I said he might come 
every day. It is idle to deceive our- 
selves : I have encouraged his ad- 
dresses. I can do nothing now with 
credit but die, or go into a convent.” 

“ When did you say this?” 

“ This very day.” 

“Then he has never acted on it.” 

“No, but he will. He will be here 
to-morrow for certain.” 

“Then your course is plain. You 
must choose to-night between him and 
me. You must dismiss him by letter, 
or me upon this spot. I have not 
much fortune to offer you, and no 
coronet ; but I love you, and you have 
seen me reject a lovely and accom- 
plished woman, whom I esteem as 
much as you do this lord. Reject 
him? Why, you have seen me fling 
her away from me like a dog sooner 


210 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


than leave you in a moment’s doubt 
of my love : if you can not write a 
civil note declining an earl for me, 
your love is not worthy of mine, and 
I will begone with my love. I will 
not take it to Mademoiselle Klosking, 
though I esteem her as you do this 
lord ; but, at all events, I will take it 
away from you, and leave you my 
curse instead, for a false, fickle girl 
that could not wait one little month, 
but must fall, with her engaged ring on 
her finger, into another man’s arms. 
Oh, Zoe ! Zoe ! who could have be- 
lieved this of you ?’’ 

“Don’t reproach me. I won’t bear 
it,” she cried, wildly. 

“ I hope not to have to reproach 
you,” said he, firmly ; “ I can not con- 
ceive your hesitating.” 

“I am worn out. Love has been 
too great a torment. Oh, if I could 
find peace !” 

Again her tears flowed. 

He put on a sympathizing air. 
“You shall have peace. Dismiss 
him as I tell you, and he will trouble 
you no more; shake hands with me, 
and say you prefer him , and I will 
trouble you no more. But with two 
lovers, peace is out of the question, 
and so is self-respect. I know I could 
not vacillate between you and Made- 
moiselle Klosking or any other wom- 
an.” 

“Ah, Edward, if I do this, you 
ought to love me very dearly.” 

“ I shall. Better than ever — if pos- 
sible.” 

“And never make me jealous again.” 

“I never shall, dearest. Our trou- 
bles are over.” 

“Edward, I have been very unhap- 
py. I could not bear these doubts 
again.” 

“ You shall never be unhappy again. ” 

“I must do what you require, I 
snppose. That is how it always ends. 
Oh dear! oh dear!” 

“ Zoe, it must be done. You know 
it must.” 

“ I warn you I shall do it as kindly 
as I can.” 


“Of course you will. You ought 
to.” 

“I must go in now. I feel very 
cold.” 

“How soon to-morrow will you 
meet me here ?” 

“When you please, ’’said she, lan- 
guidly. 

“At ten o’clock?” 

“Yes.” 

Then there was a tender parting, 
and Zoe went slowly in. She went 
to her own room, just to think it all 
over alone. She caught sight of her 
face in the glass. Her cheeks had 
regained color, and her eyes were 
bright as stars. She stopped and look- 
ed at herself. “There now,” said 
she, “and I seem to mvself to live 
again. I was mad to think I could 
ever love any man but him. He is 
my darling, my idol.” 

There was no late dinner at Som- 
erville Villa. Indeed, ladies, left to 
themselves, seldom dine late. Nature 
is strong in them, and they are hun- 
griest when the sun is high. At seven 
o’clock Zoe Vizard was seated at her 
desk trying to write to Lord Uxmoor. 
She sighed, she moaned, she began, and 
dropped the pen and hid her face. She 
became almost wild ; and in that state 
she at last dashed off what follows : 

1 ‘Dear Lord Uxmoor, — For pity’s 
sake, forgive the mad words I said to 
you to-day. It is impossible. I can 
do no more than admire and esteem 
you. Mv heart is gone from me for- 
ever. Pray forgive me, though I do 
not deserve it ; and never see me nor 
look at me again. I ask pardon for 
mv vacillation. It has been disgrace- 
ful ; but it has ended, and I was un- 
der a great error, which I can not ex- 
plain to you, when I led you to believe 
I had a heart to give you. My eyes 
are opened. Our paths lie asunder. 
Pray, pray forgive me, if it is possible. 
I will never forgive myself, nor cease 
to bless and revere you, whom I have 
used so ill. Zoe Vizard.” 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


211 


That day Uxmoor dined alone with 
his mother, for a wonder, and he told 
her how Miss Vizard had come round ; 
he told her also about the bull, but so 
vilely that she hardly comprehended 
he had been in any danger : these en- 
counters are rarely described to the 
life, except by us who avoid them — 
except on paper. 

Lady Uxmoor was much pleased. 
She was a proud, politic lady, and this 
was a judicious union of two powerful 
houses in the county, and one that 
would almost command the elections. 
But, above all, she knew her son’s 
heart was in the match, and she gave 
him a mother’s sympathy. 

As she retired, she kissed him, and 
said, “When you are quite sure of 
the prize, tell me, and I will call upon 
her.” 

Being alone, Lord Uxmoor lighted 
a cigar and smoked it in measureless 
content. The servant brought him 
a note on a salver. It had come by 
hand. Uxmoor opened it, and read 
every word straight through, down to 
“Zoe Vizard;” read it, and sat pet- 
rified. 

He read it again. He felt a sort 
of sickness come over him. He swal- 
lowed a tumbler of port, a wine he 
rarely touched ; but he felt worse now 
than after the bull-fight. This done, 
he rose and stalked like a wounded 
lion into the drawing-room, which 
was on the same floor, and laid the 
letter before his mother. 

“You are a woman too,” said he, 
a little helplessly. “Tell me — what 
on earth does this mean ?” 

The dowager read it slowly and 
keenly, and said, “It means— another 
man.” 

“Ah!” said Uxmoor, with a sort 
of snarl. 

“Have you seen any one about 
her ?” 

“No; not lately. At Vizard Court 
there was. But that is all over now, 
I conclude. It was a Mr. Severne, an 
adventurer, a fellow that was caught 
out in a lie before us all. Vizard tells 


me a lady came and claimed him be- 
fore Miss Vizard, and he ran away.” 

“An unworthy attachment, in 
short?” 

“Very unworthy, if it was an at- 
tachment at all.” 

“ Was he at Vizard Court when she 
declined your hand ?” 

“Yes.” 

“ Did he remain, after you went ?” 

“I suppose so. Yes, he must 
have.” 

“Then the whole thing- is clear: 
that man has come forward again un- 
expectedly, or written, and she dis- 
misses you. My darling, there is but 
one thing for you to do. Leave her, 
and thank her for telling you in time. 
A less honorable fool would have hid- 
den it, and then we might have had a 
Countess of Uxmoor in the Divorce 
Court some day or other.” 

“ I had better go abroad,” said Ux- 
moor, with a groan. “This country 
is poisoned for me.” 

“ Go, by all means. Let Janneway 
pack up your things to-morrow.” 

“I should like to kill that fellow 
first.” 

“ You will not even waste a thought 
on him, if you are my son.” 

“You are right, mother. What am 
I to say to her ?” 

“Not a word.” 

“ What, not answer her letter? It 
is humble enough, I am sure — poor 
soul! Mother, I am wretched, but I 
am not bitter, and my rival will re- 
venge me.” 

“ Uxmoor, your going abroad is 
the only answer she shall have. The 
wisest man, in these matters, who ever 
lived has left a rule of conduct to ev- 
ery well-born man — a rule which, be- 
lieve me, is wisdom itself : 

“ Le bruit est pour le fat, la plainte est 
pour le sot ; 

L’honnMe homme trompe s’eloigne, et 
ne dit mot.” 

You will make a tour, and not say a 
word to Miss Vizard, good, bad, nor 
indifferent. I insist upon that.” 

“Very well. Thank you, dear 


212 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


mother ; you guide me, and don’t let 
me make a fool of myself, for I am 
terribly cut up. You will be the only 
Countess of Uxmoor in my day.” 

Then he knelt at her feet, and she 
kissed his head and cried over him ; 
but her tears only made this proud 
lady stronger. 

Next day he started on his travels. 

Now, but for Zoe, he would on no 
account have left England just then ; 
for he was just going to build model 
cottages in his own village, upon de- 
signs of his own, each with a little 
plot, and a public warehouse or gran- 
ary, with divisions for their potatoes 
and apples, etc. However, he turned 
this over in his mind while he was 
packing ; he placed certain plans and 
papers in his dispatch-box, and took 
his ticket to Taddington, instead of 
going at once to London. From Tad- 
dington he drove over to Hillstoke, 
and asked for Miss Gale. They told 
him she was fixed at Vizard Court. 
That vexed him : he did not want to 
meet Vizard. He thought it the part 
of a Jerry Sneak to go and howl to a 
brother against his sister. Yet, if Viz- 
ard questioned him, how could he con- 
ceal there was something wrong? 
However, he went down to Vizard 
Court; but said to the servant who 
opened the door, “I am rather in a 
hurry, sir: do you think that you 
could procure me a few minutes with 
Miss Gale? You need not trouble 
Mr. Vizard.” 

“Yes, my laud. Certainly, my 
laud. Please step in the morning- 
room, my laud. Mr. Vizard is out. ” 

That was fortunate, and Miss Gale 
came down to him directly. 

Fanny took that opportunity to chat- 
ter and tell Mademoiselle Klosking all 
about Lord Uxmoor and his passion 
for Zoe. “And he will have her, 
too,” said she, boldly. 

Lord Uxmoor told Miss Gale he 
had called upon business. He was 
obliged to leave home for a time, and 
wished to place his projects under the 
care of a person who could really sym- 


pathize with them, and make additions 
to them, if necessary. “Men,” said 
he„“are always making oversights in 
matters of domestic comfort : besides, 
you are full of ideas. I want you to 
be viceroy with full power, and act 
just as you would if the village be- 
longed to you.” 

iihoda colored high at the compli- 
ment. 

“Wells, cows, granary, real educa- 
tion — what you like,” said he. “I 
know your mind. Begin abolishing 
the lower orders in the only way they 
can be got rid of — by raising them 
in comfort, cleanliness, decency, and 
knowledge. Then I shall not be miss- 
ed. I’m going abroad.” 

“ Going abroad?” 

“Yes. Here are my plans: alter 
them for the better, if you can. All 
the work to be done by the villagers. 
Weekly wages. We buy materials. 
They will be more reconciled to im- 
proved dwellings, when they build 
them themselves. Here are the ad- 
dresses of the people who will furnish 
money. It will entail traveling ; but 
my people will always meet you at 
the station, if you telegraph from 
Taddington. You accept? A thou- 
sand thanks. I am afraid I must be 
off.” 

She went into the hall with him, 
half bewildered, and only at the door 
found time to ask after Zoe Vizard. 

“A little better, I think, than when 
she came.” 

“ Does she know you are going 
abroad ?” 

“No; I don’t think she does, yet. 
It was settled all in a hurry.” 

He escaped further questioning by 
hurrying away. 

Miss Gale was still looking after 
him, when Ina Klosking came down, 
dressed for a walk, and leaning lightly 
on Miss Dover’s arm. This was by 
previous consent of Miss Gale. 

“Well, dear,” said Fanny, “what 
did he say to you ?” 

“Something that has surprised and 
puzzled me very much.” She then 


213 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


related the whole conversation, with 
her usual precision. 

Ina Klosking observed quietly to 
Fanny that this did not look like suc- 
cessful wooing. 

“I don't know that,” said Fanny, 
stoutly. “ Oh, Miss Gale, did you not 
ask him about her?” 

“Certainly I did; and he said she 
was better than when she first came.” 

“There!” said Fanny, triumph- 
antly. 

Miss Gale gave her a little pinch, 
and she dropped the subject. 

Vizard returned, and found Ma- 
demoiselle Klosking walking on his 
gravel. He offered her his arm, and 
was a happy man, parading her very 
slowly, and supporting her steps, and 
purring his congratulations into her 
ear. “Suppose I were to invite you 
to dinner, what would you say ?” 

“I think I should sav, ‘To-mor- 
row.’” 

“And a very good answer, too. 
To-morrow shall be a fete.” 

“You spoil me?” 

“ That is impossible.” 

It was strange to see them togeth- 
er ; he so happy, she so apathetic, yet 
gracious. 

Next morning came a bit of human 
nature — a letter from Zoe to Fanny, 
almost entirely occupied with praises 
of Lord Uxmoor. She told the bull 
story better than I have — if possible 
— and, in short, made Uxmoor a hero 
of romance. 

Fanny carried this in triumph to 
the other ladies, and read it out. 
“There!” said she. “Didn’t I tell 
you ?” 

Rhoda read the letter, and owned 
herself puzzled. “I am not, then,” 
said Fanny: “they are engaged — 
over the bull ; like Europa and I for- 
get who — and so he is not afraid to go 
abroad now. That is just like the men. 
They cool directly the chase is over.” 

Now the truth was that Zoe was 
trying to soothe her conscience with 
eloquent praises of the man she had 
dismissed, and felt guilty. 


Ina Klosking said little. She was 
puzzled too at first. She asked to see 
Zoe’s handwriting. The letter was 
handed to her. She studied the char- 
acters. “It is a good hand,” she 
said; “nothing mean there.” And 
she gave it back. 

But, with a glance, she had read 
the address, and learned that the post- 
town was Bagley. 

All that day, at intervals, she 
brought her powerful understanding 
to bear on the paradox ; and though 
she had not the facts and the clue I 
have given the reader, she came near 
the truth in an essential matter. She 
satisfied herself that Lord Uxmoor 
was not engaged to Zoe Vizard. 
Clearly, if so, he would not leave En- 
gland for months. She resolved to 
know more; and just before dinner 
she wrote a line to Ashmead, and re- 
quested him to call on her immedi- 
ately. 

That day she dined with Vizard 
and the ladies. She sat at Vizard’s 
right hand, and he told her how proud 
and happy he was to see her there. 

She blushed faintly, but made no 
reply. 

She retired soon after dinner. 

All next day she expected Ash- 
mead. 

He did not come. 

She dined with Vizard next day, 
and retired to the drawing-room. The 
piano was opened, and she played one 
or two exquisite things, and afterward 
tried her voice, but only in scales, 
and somewhat timidly, for Miss Gale 
warned her she might lose it or spoil 
it if she strained the vocal chord while 
her whole system was weak. 

Next day Ashmead came with 
apologies. He had spent a day in the 
cathedral town on business. He did 
not tell her how he had spent that day, 
going about puffing her as the greatest 
singer of sacred music in the world, 
and paving the way to her engagement 
at the next festival. Yet the single- 
hearted Joseph had really raised that 
commercial superstructure upon the 


214 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


sentiments she had uttered on his first 
visit to Vizard Court. 

Ina now held a private conference 
with him. “I think,” said she, “I 
have heard you say you were once an 
actor. ” 

“I was, madam, and a very good 
one, too.” 

“ Cela va sans dire. I never knew 
one that was not. At all events, you 
can disguise yourself.” 

“Any thing, madam, from Grand- 
father Whitehead to a boy in a pina- 
fore. Famous for my make-ups.” 

“I wish you to watch a certain 
house, and not be recognized by a 
person who knows you.” 

“ Well, madam, nothing is infra 
dig. if done for you ; nothing is dis- 
tasteful if done for you.” 

“Thank you, my friend. I have 
thought it well to put my instructions 
on paper.” 

“Ay, that is the best way.” 

She handed him the instructions. 
He read them, and his eyes sparkled. 
“Ah, this is a commission I under- 
take with pleasure, and I’ll execute it 
with zeal.” 

He left her, soon after, to carry out 
these instructions, and that very even- 
ing he was in the wardrobe of the lit- 
tle theatre, rummaging out a suitable 
costume, and also in close conference 
with the wig-maker. 

Next day Vizard had his mother’s 
sables taken out and aired, and drove 
Mademoiselle Klosking into Tadding- 
ton in an open carriage. Fanny told 
her they were his mother’s sables, and 
none to compare with them in the 
country. 

On returning, she tried her voice to 
the harmonium in her own antecham- 
ber, and found it was gaining strength 
— like herself. 

Meantime Zoe Vizard met Severne 
in the garden, and told him she had 
written to Lord Uxmoor, and he 
would never visit her again. But she 
did not make light of the sacrifice this 


time. She had sacrificed her own 
self-respect as well as Uxmoor’s, and 
she was sullen and tearful. 

He had to be very wary and patient, 
or she would have parted with him 
too, and fled from both of them to her 
brother. 

Uxmoor’s wounded pride would 
have been soothed could he have been 
present at the first interview of this 
pair. He would have seen Severne 
treated with a hauteur and a sort of 
savageness he himself was safe from, 
safe in her unshaken esteem. 

But the world is made for those 
who can keep their temper, especially 
the female part of the world. 

Sad, kind, and loving, but never ir- 
ritable, Severne smoothed down and 
soothed and comforted the wounded 
girl ; and, seeing her two or three 
times a day — for she was completely 
mistress of her time — got her com- 
pletely into his power again. 

Uxmoor did not reply. 

She had made her selection. Love 
beckoned forward. It was useless to 
look back. 

Love was omnipotent. They both 
began to recover their good looks as 
if by magic ; and as Severne’s pas- 
sion, though wicked, was earnest, no 
poor bird was ever more completely 
entangled by bird-lime than Zoe was 
caught by Edward Severne. 

Their usual place of meeting was 
the shrubbery attached to Somerville 
Villa. The trees, being young, made 
all the closer shade, and the gravel- 
walk meandered, and shut them out 
from view. 

Severne used to enter this shrub- 
bery by a little gate leading from the 
meadow, and wait under the trees till 
Zoe came to him. Vizard’s advertise- 
ments alarmed him, and he used to 
see the coast clear before he entered 
the shrubbery, and also before he left 
it. He was so particular in this that, 
observing one day an old man dodder- 
ing about with a basket, he would not 
go in till he had taken a look at him. 
He found it was an ancient white- 


215 


A WOMAN 

haired villager gathering mushrooms. 
The old fellow was so stiff, and his 
hand so trembling, that it took him 
about a minute to gather a single fun- 
gus*. 

To give a reason for coming up to 
him, Severne said, “How old are you, 
old man ?” 

“I be ninety, measter, next Mar- 
ti nmasd ay.” 

“Only ninety?” said our Adonis, 
contemptuously ; “you look a hundred 
and ninety.” 

He would have been less contempt- 
uous had he known that the mush- 
rooms were all toad -stools, and the 
village centenaire was Mr. Joseph 
Ashmead, resuming his original arts, 
and playing Grandfather Whitehead 
on the green grass. 


CHAPTER XXV. 

Mademoiselle Klosking told 
Vizard the time drew near when she 
must leave his hospitable house. 

“Say a month hence,” said he. 

She shook her head. 

“Of course you will not stay to 
gratify me,” said he, half sadly, half 
bitterly. “ But you will have to stay 
a week or two longer par ordonnance 
du medecin. ” 

“ My physician is reconciled to 
my going. We must all bow to ne- 
cessity.” 

This was said too firmly to admit a 
reply. 

“ The old house will seem very dark 
again whenever you do go,” said Viz- 
ard, plaintively. 

“ It will soon be brightened by her 
who is its true and lasting light,” was 
the steady reply. 

A day or two passed with nothing 
to record, except that Vizard hung 
about Ina Klosking, and became, if 
possible, more enamored of her and 
more unwilling to part with her. 

Mr. Ashmead arrived one afternoon 
about three o'clock, and was more than 


-HATER. 

an hour with her. They conversed 
very earnestly, and when he went, Miss 
Gale found her agitated. 

“This will not do,” said she. 

“ It will pass, my friend,” said Ina. 
“I will sleep.” 

She laid herself down and slept three 
hours before dinner. 

She arose refreshed, and dined with 
the little party ; and on retiring to the 
drawing-room, she invited Vizard to 
join them at his convenience. 

He made it his convenience in ten 
minutes. 

Then she opened the piano, played 
an introduction, and electrified them 
all by singing the leading song in 
Siebel. She did not sing it so pow- 
erfully as in the theatre; she would 
not have done that even if she could : 
but still she sung it out, and nobly. It 
seemed a miracle to hear such singing 
in a room. 

Vizard was in raptures. 

They cooled suddenly when she re- 
minded him what he had said, that she 
must stay till she could sing Siebel’s 
song. “ I keep to the letter of the 
contract,” said she. “My friends, 
this is my last night at Vizard Court.” 

“Please try and shake that resolu- 
tion,” said Vizard, gravely, to Mesde- 
moiselles Dover and Gale. 

“ They can not,” said Ina. “ It is 
my destiny. And yet,” said she, aft- 
er a pause, “I would not have you re- 
member me by that flimsy thing. Let 
me sing you a song your mother loved ; 
let me be remembered in this house, 
as a singer, by that.” 

Then she sung Handel’s song : 

“What though I trace each herb and flower 
That decks the morning dew? 

Did I not own Jehovah’s power, 

How vain were all I knew.” 

She sung it with amazing purity, 
volume, grandeur, and power; the 
lustres rang and shook, the hearts 
were thrilled, and the very souls of the 
hearers ravished. She herself turned 
a little pale in singing it, and the tears 
stood in her eyes. 

The song and its interpretation were 


216 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


so far above what passes for music that 
they all felt compliments would be an 
impertinence. Their eyes and their 
long-drawn breath paid the true hom- 
age to that great master rightly inter- 
preted — a very rare occurrence. 

“Ah!” said she; “that was the 
hand could brandish Goliath’s spear.” 

“And this is how you reconcile us 
to losing you,” said Vizard. “You 
might stay, at least, till you had gone 
through my poor mother’s collection.” 

“Ah! I wish I could. But I can 
not. I must not. My Fate forbids 
it.” 

“ ‘ Fate ’ and ‘ destiny,’ ” said Viz- 
ard, “ stuff and nonsense. We make 
our own destiny. Mine is to be eter- 
nally disappointed, and happiness 
snatched out of my hands.” 

He had no sooner made this pretty 
speech than he was ashamed of it, and 
stalked out of the room, not to say any 
more unwise things. 

This burst of spleen alarmed Fanny 
Dover. “ There,” said she, “now you 
can not go. He is very angry.” 

Ina Klosking said she was sorry for 
that; but he was too just a man to 
be angry with her long: the day would 
come when he would approve her con- 
duct. Her lip quivered a little as she 
said this, and the water stood in her 
eyes : and this was remembered and 
understood, long after, both by Miss 
Dover and Rhoda Gale. 

“When does your Royal Highness 
propose to start?” inquired Rhoda 
Gale, very obsequiously, and just a 
little bitterly. 

“To-morrow at half- past nine 
o’clock, dear friend,” said Ina. 

“ Then you will not go without me. 
You will get the better of Mr. Vizard, 
because he is only a man ; but I am a 
woman, and have a will as well as you. 
If you make a journey to-morrow, I 
go with you. Deny me, and you 
sha’n’t go at all.” Her eyes flashed 
defiance. 

Ina moved one step, took Rhoda’s 
little defiant head, and kissed her 
cheek. “Sweet physician and kind 


friend, of course you shall go with me, 
if you will, and be a great blessing to 
me.” 

This reconciled Miss Gale to the 
proceedings. She packed up a car- 
pet-bag, and was up early, making 
provisions of every sort for her pa- 
tient’s journey : air-pillows, soft warm 
coverings, medicaments, stimulants, 
etc., in a little bag slung across her 
shoulders. Thus furnished, and equip- 
ped in a uniform suit of gray cloth 
and wide-awake hat, she cut a very 
sprightly and commanding figure, but 
more like Diana than Hebe. 

The Klosking came down, a pale 
Juno, in traveling costume; and a 
quarter of an hour before the time a 
pair-horse fly was at the door and Mr. 
Ashmead in the hall. 

The ladies were both ready. 

But Vizard had not appeared. 

This caused an uneasy discussion. 

“He must be very angry,” said 
Fanny, in a half-whisper. 

“ I can not go while he is,” sighed 
La Klosking. “ There is a limit even 
to my courage.” 

“Mr. Harris,” said Rhoda, “would 
you mind telling Mr. Vizard ?” 

“Well, miss,” said Harris, softly, 
“I did step in and tell him. Which 
he told me to go to the devil, miss — 
a hobservation I never knew him to 
make before.” 

This was not encouraging. Yet 
the Klosking quietly inquired where 
he was. 

“In there, ma’am,” said Harris. 
“ In his study.” 

Mademoiselle Klosking, placed be- 
tween two alternatives, decided with 
her usual resolution. She walked 
immediately to the door and tapped 
at it ; then, scarcely waiting for an 
instant, opened it and walked in with 
seeming firmness, though her heart 
was beating rather high. 

The people outside looked at one 
another. “I wonder whether he will 
tell her to go to the devil,” said Fan- 
ny, who was getting tired of being 
good. 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


217 


u No use,” said Miss Gale; “she 
doesn’t know the road.” 

When La Klosking entered the 
study, Vizard was seated, disconso- 
late, with two pictures before him. 
His face was full of pain, and La Klos- 
king’s heart smote her. She moved 
toward him, hanging her head, and 
said, with inimitable sweetness and 
tenderness, “Here is a culprit come 
to try and appease you.” 

There came a time that he could 
hardly think of these words and her 
penitent, submissive manner with dry 
eyes. But just then his black dog 
had bitten him, and he said, sullenly, 
“ Oh, never mind me. It was always 
so. Your sex have always made me 
smart for — If flying from my house 
before you are half recovered gives 
you half the pleasure it gives me pain 
and mortification, say no more about 
it.” 

“Ah! why say it gives me pleas- 
ure? My friend, you can not really 
think so.” 

“I don’t know what to think. 
You ladies are all riddles.” 

“ Then I must take you into my 
confidence, and, with some reluctance, 
I own, let you know why I leave this 
dear, kind roof to-day.” 

Vizard’s generosity took the alarm. 
“No,” he said, “I will not extort 
your reasons. It is a shame of me. 
Your bare will ought to be law in this 
house ; and what reasons could rec- 
oncile me to losing you so suddenly ? 
You are the joy of our eyes, the de- 
light of our ears, the idol of all our 
hearts. You will leave us, and there 
will be darkness and gloom, instead of 
sunshine and song. Well, go; but you 
can not soften the blow with reasons.” 

Mademoiselle Klosking flushed, and 
her bosom heaved ; for this was a 
strong man, greatly moved. With 
instinctive tact, she saw the best way 
to bring him to his senses was to give 
him a good opening to retreat. 

“Ah, monsieur, ’’said she, “you are 
trop grand seigneur. You entertain 
a poor wounded singer in a chamber 
10 


few princes can equal. You place 
every thing at her disposal ; such a 
physician and nurse as no queen can 
command ; a choir to sing to her ; 
royal sables to keep the wind from 
her, and ladies to wait on her. And 
when you have brought her back to 
life, you say to yourself, She is a 
woman ; she will not be thoroughly 
content unless you tell her she is ador- 
able. So, out of politeness, you de- 
scend to the language of gallantry. 
This was not needed. I dispense 
with that kind of comfort. I leave 
your house because it is my duty, and 
leave it your grateful servant and true 
friend to my last hour.” 

She had opened the door, and Viz- 
ard could now escape. His obstinacy 
and bis heart wrrnld not let him. 

“Do not fence with me,” said he. 
“Leave that to others. It is beneath 
you. If you had been content to stay, 
I would have been content to show 
my heart by halves. But when you 
offer to leave me, you draw from me 
an avow'al I can no longer restrain, 
and you must and shall listen to it. 
When I saw you on the stage at 
Homburg, I admired you and loved 
you that very night. But I knew 
from experience how seldom in wom- 
en outward graces go with the virtues 
of the soul. I distrusted my judg- 
ment. I feared you and I fled you. 
But our destiny brought you here, and 
when I held you, pale and wounded, 
in my very arms, my heart seemed to 
go out of my bosom.” 

“Oh, no more! no more, pray!” 
cried Mademoiselle Klosking. 

But the current of love was not to 
be stemmed. “Since that terrible 
hour I have been in heaven, watching 
your gradual and sure recovery ; but 
you have recovered only to abandon 
me, and your hurry to leave me drives 
me to desperation. No, I can not 
part with you. You must not leave 
me, either this day or any day. Give 
me your hand, and stay here forever, 
and be the queen of my heart and of 
my house. ” 


218 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


For some time La Klosking had lost 
her usual composure. Her bosom 
heaved tumultuously, and her hands 
trembled. But at this distinct pro- 
posal the whole woman changed. She 
drew herself up, with her pale cheek 
flushing and her eyes glittering. 

“What, sir?” said she. “Have 
you read me so ill ? Do you not know 
I would rather be the meanest drudge 
that goes on her knees and scrubs 
your floors, than be queen of your 
house, as you call it ? Ah, Jesu, are 
all men alike, then ; that he whom I 
have so revered, whose mother’s songs 
I have sung to him, makes me a pro- 
posal dishonorable to me and to him- 
self?” 

“Dishonorable!” cried Vizard. 
“Why, what can any man offer to 
any woman more honorable than I 
offer you ? I offer you mv heart and 
my hand, and I say, do not go, my 
darling. Stay here forever, and be 
my queen, my goddess, my wife!” 

“Your wife ?” She stared wild- 
ly at him. “Your wife? Am I 
dreaming, or are you ?” 

“Neither. Do you think I can be 
content with less than that ? Ina, I 
adore you.” 

She put her hand to her head. “ I 
know not who is to blame for this,” 
said she, and she trembled visibly. 

“ I’ll take the blame,” said he, 
gayly. 

Said Ina, very gravely, “You, who 
do me the honor to offer me your 
name, have you asked yourself serious- 
ly what has been the nature of my re- 
lation with Edward Severne ?” 

“No!” cried Vizard, violently; 
“and I do not mean to. I see you 
despise him now ; and I have my eyes 
and my senses to guide me in choos- 
ing a wife. I choose you — if you will 
have me.” 

She listened, then turned her moist 
eyes full upon him, and said to him, 
“This is the greatest honor ever be- 
fell me. I can not take it.” 

“Not take it?” 

“No; but that is my misfortune. 


Do not be mortified. You have no 
rival in my esteem. What shall I 
say, my friend ? — at least I may call 
you that. If I explain now, I shall 
weep much, and lose my strength. 
What shall I do? I think — yes, that 
will be best — you shall go with vie to - 
day. 1 ' 

“ To the end of the world !” 

“ Something tells me you will know 
all, and forgive me.” 

“ Shall I take my bag?” 

“You might take an evening dress 
and some linen.” 

“Very well. I won’t keep you a 
moment,” said he, and went up stairs 
with great alacrity. 

She went into the hall, with her 
eyes bent on the ground, and was 
immediately pinned by Rhoda Gale, 
whose piercing eye, and inquisitive 
finger on her pulse, soon discovered 
that she had gone through a trying 
scene. “This is a bad beginning of 
an imprudent journey,” said she : “I 
have a great mind to countermand 
the carriage.” 

“No, no,” said Ina ; “I will sleep 
in the railway and recover myself.” 

The ladies now got into the car- 
riage ; Ashmead insisted on going 
upon the box ; and Vizard soon ap- 
peared, and took his seat opposite 
Miss Gale and Mademoiselle Klos- 
king. The latter whispered her doc- 
tress : “It would be wise of me not 
to speak much at present.” La Gale 
communicated this to Vizard, and 
they drove along in dead silence. But 
they were naturally curious to know 
where they were going ; so they held 
some communication with their eyes. 
They very soon found they were go- 
ing to Taddington Station. 

Then came a doubt — were they go- 
ing up or down ? 

That was soon resolved. 

Mr. Ashmead had hired a saloon 
carriage for them, with couches and 
conveniences. 

They entered it; and Mademoi- 
selle Klosking said to Miss Gale, “It 
is necessary that I should sleep.” 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


219 


“You shall,” said Miss Gale. 

While she was arranging the pil- 
lows and things, La Klosking said to 
Vizard, “We artists learn to sleep 
when we have work to do. Without 
it I should not be strong enough this 
day.” She said this in a half-apolo- 
getic tone, as one anxious not to give 
him any shadow of offense. 

She was asleep in five minutes ; and 
Miss Gale sat watching her at first, 
but presently joined Vizard at the oth- 
er end, and they whispered together. 
Said she, “ What becomes of the the- 
ory that women have no strength of 
will? There is Mademoiselle Je le 
veux in person. When she wants to 
sleep, she sleeps ; and look at you and 
me — do you know where we are go- 
ing ?” 

“No.” 

“ No more do I. The motive pow- 
er is that personification of divine re- 
pose there. How beautiful she is with 
her sweet lips parted, and her white 
teeth peeping, and her upper and lower 
lashes wedded , and how graceful!” 

“ She is a goddess,” said Vizard. 
“I wish I had never seen her. Mark 
my words, she will give me the sorest 
heart of all.” 

“I hope not,” said Rhoda, very se- 
riously. 

Ina slept sweetly for nearly two 
hours, and all that time her friends 
could only guess where they were go- 
ing. 

At last the train stopped, for the 
sixth time, and Ashmead opened the 
door. 

This worthy, who was entirely in 
command of the expedition, collected 
the luggage, including Vizard’s bag, 
and deposited it at the station. He 
then introduced the party to a pair- 
horse fly, and mounted the box. 

When they stopped at Bagley, Viz- 
ard suspected where they were going. 

When he saw the direction the car- 
riage took, he knew it, and turned 
very grave indeed. 

He even regretted that he had put 
himself so blindly under the control of 


a woman. He cast searching glances 
at Mademoiselle Klosking to try and 
discover what on earth she was going 
to do. But her face was as impen- 
etrable as marble. Still, she never 
looked less likely to do any thing rash 
or in bad taste. Quietness was the 
main characteristic of her face, when 
not rippled over by a ravishing sweet- 
ness ; but he had never seen her look 
so great, and lofty, and resolute as she 
looked now ; a little stern, too, as one 
who had a! great duty to do, and was 
inflexible as iron. When truly fem- 
inine features stiffen into marble like 
this, beauty is indeed imperial, and 
worthy of epic song ; it rises beyond 
the* wing of prose. 

My reader is too intelligent not to 
divine that she was steeling herself to 
a terrible interview with Zoe Vizard 
— terrible mainly on account of the 
anguish she knew she must inflict. 

But we can rarely carry out our 
plans exactly as we trace them — un- 
expected circumstances derange them 
or expand them ; and I will so far an- 
ticipate as to say that in this case a 
most unexpected turn of events took 
La Klosking by surprise. 

Whether she proved equal to the oc- 
casion these pages will show very soon. 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

Poikilus never left Taddington — 
only the “Swan.” More than once 
he was within sight of Ashmead unob- 
served. Once, indeed, that gentleman, 
who had a great respect for dignita- 
ries, saluted him ; for at that moment 
Poikilus happened to be a sleek digni- 
tary of the Church of England. Poi- 
kilus, when quite himself, Wore a mus- 
tache, and was sallow, and lean as a 
weasel ; but he shaved and stuffed and 
colored for the dean. Shovel - hat, 
portly walk, and green spectacles did 
the rest. Grandfather Whitehead sa- 
luted. His reverence chuckled. 

Poikilus kept Severne posted by let- 


220 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


ter and wire as to many things that 
happened outside Vizard Court ; but 
he could not divine the storm that was 
brewing inside Ina Klosking’s room. 
Yet Severne defended himself exact- 
ly as he would have done had he known 
all. He and Zoe spent Elysian hours, 
meeting twice a day in the shrubbery, 
and making love as if they were the 
only two creatures in the world ; but it 
was blind Elysium only to one of them 
— Severne was uneasy and alarmed the 
w hole time. His sagacity showed him 
it could not last, and there was always 
a creeping terror on him. Would not 
Uxmoor cause inquiries? Would he 
not be sure to tell Vizard ? Would 
not Vizard come there to look after 
Zoe, or order her back to Vizard Court ? 
Would not the Klosking get well, and 
interfere once more? He passed the 
time between heaven and hell ; when- 
ever he was not under the immediate 
spell of Zoe’s presence, a sort of vague 
terror was always on him. He looked 
all round him, wherever he went. 

This terror, and his passion, which 
was now as violent as it was wicked, 
soon drove him to conceive desperate 
measures. But, by masterly self-gov- 
ernment, he kept them two days to his 
own bosom. He felt it was too soon 
to raise a fresh and painful discussion 
with Zoe. He must let her drink un- 
mixed delight, and get a taste for it ; 
and then show her or what conditions 
alone it could be had forever. 

It Was on the third day after their 
reconciliation she found him seated on 
a bench in the shrubbery, lost in 
thought, and looking very dejected. 
She was close to him before he no- 
ticed ; then he sprung up, stared at 
her, and began to kiss her hands vio- 
lently, and even her very dress. 

“It is you,” said he, “ once more.” 

“Yes, dear,” said Zoe, tenderly; 
“ did you think I would not come ?” 

“I did not know whether you could 
come. I feel that my happiness can 
not last long. And, Zoe dear, I have 
had a dream. I dreamed we were 
taken prisoners, and carried to Vizard 


Court, and on the steps stood Vizard 
and Mademoiselle Klosking arm-in- 
arm ; I believe they were man and 
wife. And you w r ere taken out and 
led, weeping, into the house, and I was 
left there raging with agony. And 
then that lady put out her finger in a 
commanding way, and I was whirled 
away into utter darkness, and I heard 
you moan, and I fought, and dashed 
my head against the carriage, and I 
felt my heart burst, and my whole body 
filled with some cold liquid, and I 
went to sleep, and I heard a voice say, 

‘ It is all over ; his trouble is ended. ’ 
I was dead.” 

This narrative, and his deep dejec- 
tion, set Zoe’s tears flowing. “Poor 
Edward !” she sighed. “ I would not 
survive you. But cheer up, dear; it 
was only a dream. We are not slaves. 
I am not dependent on any one. How 
can we be parted ?” 

“We shall, unless we use our op- 
portunity, and make it impossible to 
part us. Zoe, do not slight my alarm 
and my misgivings ; such warnings are 
prophetic. For Heaven’s sake, make 
one sacrifice more, and let us place our 
happiness beyond the reach of man!” 

“Only tell me how.” 

“There is but one way — marriage.” 

Zoe blushed high, and panted a lit- 
tle, but said nothing. 

“Ah!” said he, piteously, “I ask 
too much.” 

“ How can you say that ?” said Zoe. 
“Of course I shall marry you, dear- 
est. What ! do you think I could do 
what I have done for any body but my 
husband that is to be?” 

“I was mad to think otherwise,” 
said he, “but I am in low spirits, 
and full of misgivings. Oh, the com- 
fort, the bliss, the peace of mind, the 
joy, if you would see our hazardous 
condition, and make all safe by mar- 
rying me to-morrow.” 

“ To-morrow ! Why, Edward, are 
you mad? How can we be married, 
so long as my brother is so prejudiced 
against you ?” 

“If we wait his consent, we are 


221 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


parted forever. He would forgive us 
after it — that is certain. But he would 
never consent. He is too much un- 
der the influence of his — of Mademoi- 
selle Klosking.” 

“Indeed, I can not hope he will 
consent beforehand,” sighed Zoe; 
“ but I have not the courage to defy 
him ; and if I had, we could not mar- 
ry all in a moment, like that. We 
should have to be cried in church.” 

“That is quite gone out among la- 
dies and gentlemen.” 

“Not in our family. Besides, even 
a special license takes time, I sup- 
pose. Oh no, I could not be married 
in a clandestine, discreditable way. I 
am a Vizard — please remember that. 
Would you degrade the woman you 
honor with your choice ?” 

And her red cheeks and flashing 
eyes warned him to desist. 

“ God forbid !” said he. “If that 
is the alternative, I consent to lose her 
— and lose her I shall.” 

He then affected to dismiss the 
subject, and said, “Let me enjoy the 
hours that are left me. Much misery 
or much bliss can be condensed in a 
few days. I will enjoy the blessed 
time, and we will wait for the chap- 
ter of accidents that is sure to part 
us.” Then he acted reckless happi- 
ness, and broke down at last. 

She cried, but showed no sign of 
yielding. Her pride and self-respect 
were roused and on their defense. 

The next day he came to her quiet- 
ly sad. He seemed languid and list- 
less, and to care for nothing. He was 
artful enough to tell her, on the infor- 
mation of Poikilus, that Vizard had 
hired the cathedral choir three times 
a week to sing to his inamorata ; and 
that he had driven her about Padding- 
ton, dressed, like a duchess, in a whole 
suit of sables. 

At that word the girl turned pale. 

He observed, and continued : “And 
it seems these sables are known 
throughout the county. There were 
several carriages in the town, and my 
informant heard a lady say they were 


Mrs. Vizard’s sables, worth five hun- 
dred guineas — a Russian princess gave 
them her.” 

“It is quite true,” said Zoe. ‘ ' His 
mother’s sables ! Is it possible!” 

“ They all say he is caught at last, 
and this is to be the next Mrs. Vizard.” 

“ They may well say so, if he pa- 
rades her in his mother’s sables,” said 
Zoe, and could not conceal her jeal- 
ousy and her indignation. “I never 
dared so much as ask his permission 
to wear them,” said she. 

“And if you had, he would have 
told you the relics of a saint were not 
to be played with.” 

“That is just what he would have 
said, I do believe.” The female heart 
was stung. 

“Ah, well,” said Severne, “I am 
sure I should not grudge him his hap- 
piness, if you would see things as he 
does, and be as brave as he is.” 

“Thank you,” said Zoe. “Wom- 
en can not defy the world as men do.” 
Then, passionately, “ Why do you tor- 
ment me so ? why do you urge me so ? 
a poor girl, all alone, and far from ad- 
vice. What on earth would you have 
me do?” 

“Secure us against another sepa- 
ration, unite us in bliss forever.” 

“And so I would if I could; you 
know I would. But it is impossible.” 

“No, Zoe; it is easy. There are 
two ways : we can reach Scotland in 
eight hours; and there, by a simple 
writing and declaration before wit- 
nesses, we are man and wife.” 

“A Gretna Green marriage?” 

“ It is just as much a legal marriage 
as if a bishop married us at St. Paul’s. 
However, we could follow it up imme- 
diately by marriage in a church, either 
in Scotland or the North of England. 
But there is another way : we can be 
married at Bagley, any day, before the 
registrar. ” 

“Is that a marriage — a real mar- 
riage ?” 

“As real, as legal, as binding as a 
wedding in St. Paul’s.” 

“Nobody in this county has ever 


222 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


been married so. I should blush to 
be seen about after it.” 

“ Our first happy year would not be 
passed in this country. We should go 
abroad for six months.” 

“Ay, fly from shame.” 

“On our return we should be re- 
ceived with open arms by my own 
people in Huntingdonshire, until your 
people came round, as they always 
do.” 

He then showed her a letter, in 
which his pearl of a cousin said they 
would receive his wife with open arms, 
and make her as happy as they could. 
Uncle Tom was coming home from 
India, with two hundred thousand 
pounds ; he was a confirmed old bach- 
elor, and Edward his favorite, etc. 

Zoe faltered a little : so then he 
pressed her hard with love, and en- 
treaties, and promises, and even hys- 
terical tears ; then she began to cry — 
a sure sign of yielding. “ Give me 
time,” she said — “give me time.” 

He groaned, and said there was no 
time to lose. Otherwise he never 
would have urged her so. 

For all that, she could not be drawn 
to a decision. She must think over 
such a step. 

Next morning, at the usual time, 
he came to know his fate. But she 
did not appear. He waited an hour 
for her. She did not come. He be- 
gan to rage and storm, and curse his 
folly for driving her so hard. 

At last she came, and found him 
pale with anxiety, and looking utter- 
ly miserable. She told him she had 
passed a sleepless night, and her head 
had ached so in the morning she could 
not move. 

“ My poor darling !” said he; “and 
I am the cause. Say no more about 
it, dear one. I see you do not love 
me as I love you, and I forgive you.” 

She smiled sadly at that, for she 
was surer of her own love than his. 

Zoe had passed a night of torment 
and vacillation : and but for her broth- 
er having paraded Mademoiselle Klos- 
king in his mother’s sables, she would, 


I think, have held out. But this turn- 
ed her a little against her brother ; and, 
as he was the main obstacle to her 
union with Severne, love and pity con- 
quered. Yet still Honor and Bride 
had their say. “Edward,” said she, 
“I love you with all my heart, and 
share your fears that accident may 
separate us. I will let you decide for 
both of us. But, before you decide, 
be warned of one thing. I am a girl 
no longer, but a woman who has been 
distracted with many passions. If 
any slur rests on my fair name, deeply 
as I love you now, I shall abhor you 
then.” 

He turned pale, for her eye flashed 
dismay into his craven soul. 

He said nothing ; and she contin- 
ued : “If you insist on this hasty, 
half-clandestine marriage, then I con- 
sent to this — I will go with you be- 
fore the registrar, and I shall come 
back here directly. Next morning 
early we will start for Scotland, and 
be married that other way before wit- 
nesses. Then your fears will be at 
an end, for yon believe in these mar- 
riages ; only, as I do not — for I look 
on these legal marriages merely as sol- 
emn betrothals — I shall be Miss Zoe 
Vizard, and expect you to treat me 
so, until I have been married in a 
church, like a lady.” 

“Of course you shall,” said he; 
and overwhelmed her with expres- 
sions of gratitude, respect, and affec- 
tion. 

This soothed her troubled mind, 
and she let him take her hand and 
pour his honeyed flatteries into her 
ear, as he walked her slowly up and 
down. 

She could hardly tear herself away 
from the soft pressure of his hand and 
the fascination of his tongue, and she 
left him, more madly in love with him 
than ever, and ready to face any thing 
but dishonor for him. She was to 
come out at twelve o’clock, and walk 
into Bagley with him to betroth her- 
self to him, as she chose to consider 
it, before the stipendiary magistrate. 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


223 


who married couples in that way. Of 
the two marriages she had consented 
to, merely as preliminaries to a real 
marriage, Zoe despised this the most ; 
for the Scotch marriage was, at all 
events, ancient, and respectable lovers 
had been driven to it again and again. 

She was behind her time, and Sev- 
erne thought her courage had failed 
her, after all. But no: at half-past 
twelve she came out, and walked brisk- 
ly toward Bagley. 

He was behind her, and followed 
her. She took his arm nervously. 
“Let me feel you all the way,” she 
said, “to give me courage.” 

So they walked arm-in-arm ; and, 
as they went, his courage secretly wa- 
vered, hers rose at every step. 

About half a mile from the town 
they met a carriage and pair. 

A-t sight of them a gentleman on 
the box tapped at the glass window, 
and said, hurriedly, “Here they are 
together . ” 

Mademoiselle Klosking said, “ Stop 
the carriage then, pausing a little, 
“Mr. Vizard — on your word of hon- 
or, no violence.” 

The carriage was drawn up, Ash- 
mead opened the door in a trice, and 
La Klosking, followed by Vizard, step- 
ped out, and stood like a statue before 
Edward Severne and Zoe Vizard. 

Severne dropped her arm directly, 
and was panic-stricken. 

Zoe uttered a little scream at the 
sight of Vizard ; but the next mo- 
ment took fire at her rival’s audacity, 
and stepped boldly before her lover, 
with flashing eyes and expanded nos- 
trils that literally breathed defiance. 


CHAPTER XXV IL 

“You infernal scoundrel!” roared 
Vizard, and took a stride toward Sev- 
erne. 

“No violence,” said Ina Klosking, 
sternly: “it will be an insult to this 
lady and me.” 


“ Very well, then,” said Vizard, 
grimly, “ I must wait till I catch him 
alone.” 

“ Meantime, permit me to speak, 
sir,” said Ina. “Believe me, I have 
a better right than even you.” 

“Then pray ask my sister why I 
find her on that villain’s arm.” 

“ I should not answer her,” said 
Zoe, haughtily. “But my brother I 
will. Harrington, all this vulgar abuse 
confirms me in my choice: I take his 
arm because I have accepted his hand. 

I am going into Bagley with him to 
become his wife.” 

This announcement took awa} r Viz- 
ard’s breath for a moment, and Ina 
Klosking put in her word. “ You 
can not do that: pray be warned. He 
is leading you to infamy.” 

“ Infamy ! What, because he can 
not give me a suit of sables? Infa- 
my! because we prefer virtuous pov- 
erty to vice and wealth ?” 

1 ‘No, young lady,” said Ina, color- 
ing faintly at the taunt; “but be- 
cause you could only be his para- 
mour ; not his wife. He is married 
already.” 

At these words, spoken with that 
power Ina Klosking could always co\n- 
mand, Zoe Vizard turned ashy pale. 
But she fought on bravely. “Mar- 
ried? It is false! To whom?” 

“To me.” 

“ I thought so. Now I know it is 
not true. He left you months before 
we ever knew him.” 

“Look at him. He does not say 
it is false.” 

Zoe turned on Severne, and at his 
faee her own heart quaked. “Are 
you married to this lady?” she asked ; 
and her eyes, dilated to their full size, 
searched his every feature. 

“ Not that I know of,” said he, im- 
pudently. 

“ Is that the serious answer yon ex- 
pected, Miss Vizard ?” said Ina, keen- 
ly : then to Severne, “You are un- 
wise to insult the woman on whom, 
from this day, you must depend for 
bread. Miss Vizard, to you I speak, 


224 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


and not to tins shameless man. Eor 
your mother’s sake, do me justice. I 
have loved him dearly ; but now I ab- 
hor him. Would I could break the 
tie that binds us, and give him to you, 
or to any lady who would have him ! 
But I can not. And shall I hold my 
tongue, and let you be ruined and 
dishonored ? I am an older woman 
than you, and bound by gratitude to 
all your house. Dear lady, I have 
taxed my strength to save you. I feel 
that strength waning. Pray read this 
paper, and consent to save yourself.'* 

“I will read it,” said Rhoda Gale, 
interfering. “I know German. It 
is an authorized duplicate certifying 
the marriage of Edward Severne, of 
Willingham, in Huntingdonshire, En- 
gland, to Ina Ferris, daughter of Wal- 
ter Ferris and Eva Klosking, of Zut- 
zig, in Denmark. The marriage was 
solemnized at Berlin, and here are the 
signatures of several witnesses: Eva 
Klosking ; Fraulein Graafe ; Ziig, 
the Capellmeister ; Vicomte Meurice, 
French attache; Count Hompesch, 
Bavarian plenipotentiary ; Herr For- 
mes.” 

Ina explained, in a voice that was 
now feeble, “I was a public charac- 
ter ; my marriage was public : not 
like the clandestine union which is all 
he dared offer to this well-born lady.” 

“The Bavarian and French minis- 
ters are both in London,” said Vizard, 
eagerly. “We can easily learn if 
these signatures are forged, like your 
acceptances.” 

But, if one shadow of doubt remain- 
ed, Severne now removed it ; he ut- 
tered a scream of agony, and fled as 
if the demons of remorse and despair 
were spurring him with red-hot rowels. 

“There, you little idiot!” roared 
Vizard ; “ does that open your eyes ?” 

“Oh, Mr. Vizard,” said Ina, re- 
proachfully, “for pity’s sake, think 
only of her youth, and what she has 
to suffer. I can do no more for her : 
I feel — so — faint.” 

Ashmead and Rhoda supported her 
into the carriage. Vizard, touched 


to the heart by Ina’s appeal, held otzfc 
his eloquent arms to his stricken sis- 
ter, and she tottered to him, and clung 
to him, all limp and broken, and wish- 
ing she could sink out of the sight of 
all mankind. He put his strong arm 
round her, and, though his own heart 
was desolate and broken, he support- 
ed that broken flower of womanhood, 
and half led, half lifted her on, until 
he laid her on a sofa in Somerville 
Villa. Then, for the first time, he 
spoke to her. “We are both deso- 
late, now, my child. Let us love one 
another. I will be ten times tenderer 
to you than I ever have been.” She 
gave a great sob, but she was past 
speaking. 

Ina Klosking, Miss Gale, and Ash- 
mead returned in the carriage to Bag- 
ley. Half a mile out of the town they 
found a man lying on the pathway, 
with his hat off, and white as a sheet. 
It was Edward Severne. He had run 
till he dropped. 

Ashmead got down and examined 
him. 

He came back to the carriage door, 
looking white enough himself. “It 
is all over,” said he; “the man is 
dead.” 

Miss Gale was out in a moment 
and examined him. “ No,” said she. 
“The heart does not beat percepti- 
bly ; but he breathes. It is another 
of those seizures. Help me get him 
into the carriage.” 

This was done, and the driver or- 
dered to go a foot’s pace. 

The stimulants Miss Gale had 
brought for Ina Klosking were now 
applied to revive this malefactor ; and 
both ladies actually ministered to him 
with compassionate faces. He was 
a villain ; but he was superlatively 
handsome, and a feather might turn 
the scale of life or death. 

The seizure, though really appalling 
to look at., did not last long. He re- 
vived a little in the carriage, and was 
taken, still insensible, but breathing 
hard, into a room in the railway ho- 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


tel. When he was out of danger, 
Miss Gale felt Ina Klosking’s pulse, 
and insisted on her going to Tad- 
dington by the next train, and leav- 
ing Severne to the care of Mr. Ash- 
mead. 

Ina, who, in truth, was just then 
most unfit for any more trials, feebly 
consented, but not until she had given 
Ashmead some important instructions 
respecting her malefactor, and sup- 
plied him with funds. Miss Gale also 
instructed Ashmead how to proceed 
in case of a relapse, and provided him 
with materials. 

The ladies took a train, which ar- 
rived soon after ; and, being so fortu- 
nate as to get a lady’s carriage all to 
themselves, they sat intertwined and 
rocking together, and Ina Klosking 
found relief at last in a copious flow 
of tears. 

Rhoda got her to Hillstoke, cooked 
for her, nursed her, lighted fires, aired 
her bed, and these two friends slept 
together in each other’s arms. 

Ashmead had a hard time of it with 
Severne. He managed pretty well 
with him at first, because he stupefied 
him with brandy before he had come 
to his senses, and in that state got him 
into the next train. But as the fumes 
wore off, and Severne realized his vil- 
lainy, his defeat, and his abject con- 
dition between the two women he had 
wronged, he suddenly uttered a yell, 
and made a spring at the window. 
Ashmead caught him by his calves, 
and dragged him so powerfully down, 
that his face struck the floor hard and 
his nose bled profusely. The hem- 
orrhage and the blow quieted him 
for a time, and then Ashmead gave 
him more brandy, and got him to the 
‘ ‘ Swan ” in a half-lethargic lull. This 
faithful agent, and man of all work, 
took a private sitting-room with a 
double-beddecKroom adjoining it, and 
ordered a hot supper with Champagne 
and Madeira. 

Severne lay on a sofa moaning. 

,p he waiter stared. “Trouble!” 
whiapered Ashmead, confidentially. 

10 * 


225 

“Take no notice. Supper as quick 
as possible.” 

By-and-by Severne started up, and 
began to rave and tear about the room, 
cursing his hard fate, and ended in a 
kind of hysterical fit. Ashmead, be- 
ing provided by Miss Gale with salts 
and aromatic vinegar, etc., applied 
them, and ended by dashing a tum- 
bler of water right into his face, 
which did him more good than chem- 
istry. 

Then he tried to awaken manhood 
in the fellow. “ What are you howl- 
ing about?” said he. “Why, you 
are the only sinner, and you are the 
least sufferer. Come, drop sniveling, 
and eat a bit. Trouble don’t do on 
an empty stomach.” 

Severne said he would try, but beg- 
ged the waiter might not be allowed 
to stare at a broken-hearted man. 

“Broken fiddlestick!” said honest 
Joe. 

Severne tried to eat, but could not. 
But he could drink, and said so* 

Ashmead gave him Champagne in 
tumblers, and that, on his empty stom- 
ach, set him raving, and saving life 
was hell to him now. But presently 
he fell to weeping bitterly. In which 
condition Ashmead forced him to bed, 
and there he slept heavily. In the 
morning Ashmead sat by his bedside, 
and tried to bring him to reason. 
“ Now, look here,” said he, “you are 
a lucky fellow, if you will only see it. 
You have escaped bigamy and a jail, 
and, as a reward for your good con- 
duct to your wife, and the many vir- 
tues you have exhibited in a short 
space of time, I am instructed by that 
lady to pay you twenty pounds every 
Saturday at twelve o’clock. It is only 
a thousand a year ; but don’t you be 
down - hearted ; I conclude she will 
raise your salary as you advance. 
You must forge her name to a heavy 
oheck, rob a church, and abduct a 
school -girl or two — misses in their 
teens and wards of Chancery prefer- 
red — and she will make it thirty, no 
doubt;” and Joe looked very sour. 


226 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


“That for her twenty pounds a 
week !” cried this injured man. “ She 
owes me two thousand pounds and 
more. She has been my enemy, and 
her own. The fool! — to go and 
peach ! She had only to hold her 
tongue, and be Mrs. Vizard, and then 
she would have had a rich husband 
that adores her, and I should have 
had my darling beautiful Zoe, the 
only woman I ever loved or ever 
shall.” 

“ Oh,” said Ashmead, “ then you 
expected your wife to commit biga- 
my, and so make it smooth to you.” 

“ Of course I did," was the worthy 
Severne’s reply; “and so she would, 
if she had had a grain of sense. See 
what a contrast now. We are all un- 
happy — herself included — and it is all 
her doing.” 

“Well, young man,” said Ash- 
mead, drawing a long breath ; “ didn’t 
I tell you, you are a lucky fellow ? 
You have got twenty pounds a week, 
and that blest boon, ‘ a conscience void 
of offense.’ You are a happy man. 
Here’s a strong cup of tea for you : 
just you drink it, and then get up 
and take the train to the little village. 
There kindred spirits and fresh de- 
lights await you. You are not to 
adorn Barfordshire any longer : that 
is the order.” 

“ Well, I’ll go to London — but not 
without you.” 

‘ ‘ Me ! What do you want of me ?” 

“You are a good fellow, and the 
only friend I have left. But for you, 
I should be dead, or mad. You have 
pulled me through.” 

“Through the window I did. Lord, 
forgive me for it,” said Joseph. 
“Well, I’ll go up to town with you; 
but I can't be always tied to your tail. 
I haven’t got twenty pounds a week. 
To be sure,” he added, dryly, “I 
haven’t earned it. That is one com- 
fort.” 

He telegraphed Hillstoke, and took 
Severne up to London. 

There the Bohemian very soon 
found he could live, and even derive 


some little enjoyment from his vices 
— without Joseph Ashmead. He vis- 
ited him punctually every Saturday, 
and conversed delightfully. If he 
came any other day, it was sure to be 
for an advance : he never got it. 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

Fanny Dover was sent for direct- 
ly to Somerville Villa ; and, three days 
after the distressing scene I have en- 
deavored to describe, Vizard brought 
his wrecked sister home. Her con- 
dition was pitiable ; and the moment 
he reached Vizard Court he mount- 
ed his horse and rode to Hillstoke to 
bring Miss Gale down to her. 

There he found Ina Klosking, with 
her boxes at the door, waiting for the 
fly that was to take her away. 

It was a sad interview. He thank- 
ed her deeply for her noble conduct to 
his sister, and then he could not help 
speaking of his own disappointment. 

Mademoiselle Klosking, on this oc- 
casion, was simple, sad, and even ten- 
der, within prudent limits. She treat- 
ed this as a parting forever, and there- 
fore made no secret of her esteem for 
him. “But,” said she, “I hope one 
day to hear you have found a partner 
worthy of you. As for me, who am 
tied for life to one I despise, and can 
never love again, I shall seek my con- 
solation in music, and, please God, in 
charitable actions.” 

He kissed her hand at parting, and 
gave her a long, long look of miser- 
able regret that tried her composure 
hard, and often recurred to her mem- 
ory. 

She went up to London, took a 
small suburban house, led a secluded 
life, and devoted herself to her art, 
making a particular study now of sa- 
cred music ; she collected volumes of 
it, and did not disdain to buy it at 
book - stalls, or wherever she could 
find it. 

Ashmead worked for her, and she 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


227 


made her first appearance in a new 
oratorio. Her songs proved a prin- 
cipal feature in the performance. 

Events did not stand still in Bar- 
fordshire ; but they were tame, com- 
pared with those I have lately related, 
and must be dispatched in fewerwords. 

Aunt Maitland recovered unexpect- 
edly from a severe illness, and was 
a softened woman : she sent Fanny 
off to keep Zoe company. That poor 
girl had a bitter time, and gave Doc- 
tress Gale great anxiety. She had 
no brain-fever, but seemed quietly, in- 
sensibly, sinking into her grave. No 
appetite, and indeed was threatened 
with atrophy at one time. But she 
was so surrounded with loving-kind- 
ness that her shame diminished, her 
pride rose, and at last her agony was 
blunted, and only a pensive languor 
remained to show that she had been 
crushed, and could not be again the 
bright, proud, high-spirited beauty of 
Barfordshire. 

For many months she never men- 
tioned either Edward Severne, Ina 
Klosking, or Lord Exmoor. 

It was a long time before she went 
outside the gates of her own park. 
She seemed to hate the outer world. 

Her first visit was to Miss Gale; 
that young lady was now very happy. 
She had her mother with her. Mrs. 
Gale had defeated the tricky executor, 
and had come to England with a tidy 
little capital, saved out of the fire by 
her sagacity and spirit. 

Mrs. Gale’s character has been part- 
ly revealed by her daughter. I have 
only to add she was a homely, well- 
read woman, of few words, but those 
few — grape-shot. Example — she said 
to Zoe, “Young lady, excuse an old 
woman’s freedom, who might be your 
mother: the troubles of young folk 
have a deal of self in them ; more 
than you could believe. Now just you 
try something to take you out of self, 
and you will be another creature.” 

“Ah,” sighed Zoe, “would to 
Heaven I could!” 


“Oh,” said Mrs. Gale, “any body 
with money can do it, and the world 
so full of real trouble. Now, my girl 
tells me you are kind to the poor: 
why not do something like Rhoda is 
doing for this lord she is overseer, or 
goodness knows what, to ?” 

Rhoda (defiantly), “ Viceroy.” 

“ You have money, and your broth- 
er will not refuse you a bit o’ laud. 
Why not build some of these new- 
fangled cotfages, with fancy gardens, 
and dwarf palaces for a cow and a 
pig? Rhoda, child, if I was a poor 
woman, I could graze a cow in the 
lanes hereabouts, and feed a pig in 
the woods. Now you do that for the 
poor, Miss Vizard, and don’t let my 
girl think for you. Breed your own 
ideas. That will divert you from self, 
my dear, and you will begin to find it 
— there — just as if a black cloud was 
clearing away from your mind, and 
letting your heart warm again.” 

Zoe caught at the idea, and that 
very day asked Vizard timidly wheth- 
er he would let her have some land 
to build a model cottage or two on. 

Will it be believed that the good- 
natured Vizard made a wry face? 
“What, two proprietors in Islip!” 
For a moment or two he was all 
squire. But soon the brother con- 
quered. “Well,” said he, “I can’t 
give you a fee-simple ; I must think 
of my heirs : but I will hold a court, 
and grant you a copy- hold; or I’ll 
give you a ninety-nine years’ lease at 
a pepper-corn. There’s a slip of three 
acres on the edge of the Green. You 
shall amuse yourself with that.” He 
made it over to her directly, for a cent- 
ury, at ten shillings a year ; and, as 
he was her surviving trustee, he let 
her draw in advance on her ten thou- 
sand pounds. 

Mapping out the ground with Rho- 
da, settling the gardens and the min- 
iature pastures, and planning the little 
houses and outhouses, and talking a 
great deal, compared with what she 
transacted, proved really a certain an- 
tidote to that lethargy of woe which 


228 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


oppressed her : and here, for a time, 
I must leave her, returning slowly to 
health of body, and some tranquillity 
of mind ; but still subject to fits of 
shame, and gnawed by bitter regrets. 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

The reputation Mademoiselle Klos- 
king gained in the new oratorio, aided 
by Ashmead’s exertions, launched her 
in a walk of art that accorded with 
her sentiments. 

She sung in the oratorio whenever 
it could be performed, and also sung 
select songs from it, and other sacred 
songs at concerts. 

She was engaged at a musical festi- 
val in the very cathedral town whose 
choir had been so consoling to her. 
She entered with great zeal into this 
engagement, and finding there was a 
general desire to introduce the lead- 
ing chorister-boy to the public in a 
duet, she surprised them all by offer- 
ing to sing the second part with him, 
if he would rehearse it carefully with 
her at her lodgings. He was only 
too glad, as might be supposed. She 
found he had a lovely voice, but little 
physical culture. He read correctly, 
but did not even know the nature of 
the vocal instrument and its construc- 
tion, which is that of a bagpipe. She 
taught him how to keep his lungs full 
in singing, yet not to gasp, and by 
this simple means enabled him to 
sing with more than twice the power 
he had ever exercised yet. She also 
taught him the swell, a figure of mu- 
sic he knew literally nothing about. 

When, after singing a great solo, 
to salvos of applause, Mademoiselle 
Klosking took the second part with 
this urchin, the citizens and all the 
musical people who haunt a cathedral 
were on the tiptoe of expectation. 
The boy amazed them, and the rich 
contralto that supported him and rose 
and swelled with him in ravishing har- 
mony enchanted them. The vast im- 


provement in the boy’s style did not 
escape the hundreds of persons who 
knew him, and this duet gave La Klos- 
king a great personal popularity. 

Her last song, by her own choice, 
was, “What though I trace” (Han- 
del), and the majestic volume that 
rang through the echoing vault show- 
ed with what a generous spirit she 
had subdued that magnificent organ 
not to crush her juvenile partner in 
the preceding duet. 

Among tlie persons present was 
Harrington Vizard. He had come 
there against his judgment; but he 
could not help it. 

He had been cultivating a dull tran- 
quillity, and was even beginning his 
old game of railing on women, as the 
great disturbers of male peace. At 
the sight of her, and the sound of her 
first notes, away went his tranquillity, 
and he loved her as ardently as ever. 
But when she sung his mother’s favor- 
ite, and the very roof rang, and three 
thousand souls were thrilled and lift- 
ed to heaven by that pure and noble 
strain, the rapture could not pass away 
from this one heart; while the ear 
ached at the cessation of her voice, 
the heart also ached, and pined, and 
yearned. 

He ceased to resist. Erom that day 
he followed her about to her public 
performances all over the Midland 
Counties ; and she soon became aware 
of his presence. She said nothing till 
Ashmead drew her attention ; then, 
being compelled to notice it, she said 
it was a great pity. Surely he must 
have more important duties at home. 

Ashmead wanted to recognize him, 
and put him into the best place va- 
cant ; but La Klosking said, “No. I 
will be more his friend than to lend 
him the least encouragement.” 

A the end of that tour she return- 
ed to London. 

While she was there in her little 
suburban house, she received a visit 
from Mr. Edward Severne. He came 
to throw himself at her feet, and beg 
! forgiveness. She said she would try 


229 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


and forgive him. lie then implored 
her to forget the past. She told him 
that was beyond her power. He per- 
sisted, and told her he had come to 
his senses ; all his misconduct now 
seemed a hideous dream, and he found 
he had never really loved any one but 
her. So then he entreated her to try 
him once more; to give him back the 
treasure of her love. 

She listened to him like a woman 
of marble. “ Love where I despise!” 
said she. “ Never. The day has gone 
by when these words can move me. 
Come to me for the means of enjoy- 
ing yourself — gambling, drinking, 
and your other vices — and I shall in- 
dulge you. But do not profane the 
name of love. I forbid you ever to 
enter my door on that errand. I pre- 
sume you want money. There is a 
hundred pounds. Take it ; and keep 
out of my sight till you have wasted 
it.” 

He dashed the notes proudly down. 
She turned her back on him, and 
glided into another room. 

When she returned, he was gone, 
and the hundred pounds had managed 
to accompany him. 

He went straight from her to Ash- 
mead, and talked big. He would sue 
for restitution of conjugal rights. 

“ Don't do that, for my sake,” said 
Ashmead. “ She will fly the country 
like a bird, and live in some village 
on bread and milk.” 

“Oh, I would not do you an ill turn 
for the world,” said the Master of Arts. 
“You have been a kind friend to me. 
You saved my life. It is imbittered 
by remorse, and recollections of the 
happiness I have thrown away, and the 
heart I have wronged. No matter !” 

This visit disturbed La Klosking, 
and disposed her to leave London. 
She listened to a brilliant offer that 
was made her, through Ashmead, by 
the manager of the Italian Opera, who 
was organizing a provincial tour. The 
tour was well advertised in advance, 
and the company opened to a grand 
house at Birmingham. 


Mademoiselle Klosking had not 
been long on the stage when 6he dis- 
covered her discarded husband in the 
i stalls, looking the perfection of youth- 
! ful beauty. The next minute she saw 
| Vizard in a private box. Mr. Severne 
applauded her loudly, and flung her a 
bouquet. Mr. Vizard fixed his eyes 
on her, beaming with admiration, but 
made no public demonstration. 

The same incident repeated itself 
every night she sung, and at every 
town. 

At last she spoke about it to Ash- 
mead, in the vague, suggestive way 
her sex excels in. “I presume you 
have observed the people in front.” 

“Yes, madam. Two in particu- 
lar.” 


“Could you not advise him to de- 
sist ?” 

“Which of ’em, madam?” 

“Mr. Vizard, of course. He is 
losing his time, and wasting senti- 
ments it is cruel should be wasted.” 

Ashmead said he dared not take 
any liberty with Mr. Vizard. 

So the thing went on. 

Severne made acquaintance with 
the manager, and obtained the entree 
behind the scenes. He brought his 
wife a bouquet every night, and pre- 
sented it to her with such reverence 
and grace, that she was obliged to 
take it and courtesy, or seem rude to 
the people about. 

Then she wrote to Miss Gale, and 
begged her to come if she could. 

Miss Gale, who had all this time 
been writing her love - letters twice 
a week, immediately appointed her 
mother viceroy, and went to her 
friend. Ina Klosking explained the 
situation to her with a certain slight 
timidity and confusion not usual to 
her; and said, “Now, dear, you have 
more courage than the rest of us ; 
and I know he has a great respect 
for you ; and, indeed, Miss Dover told 
me he would quite obey you. Would 
it not be the act of a friend to advise 
him to cease this unhappy — What 
good can come of it? He neglects 


230 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


his own duties, and disturbs me in 
mine. I sometimes ask myself would 
it not be kinder of me to give up my 
business, or practice it elsewhere — 
Germany, or even Italy.” 

“Does be call on you?” 

“No.” 

‘ ‘ Does he write to you ?” 

“Oh no. I wish he would. Be- 
cause then I should be able to reply 
like a true friend, and send him away. 
Consider, dear, it is not like a nobody 
dangling after a public singer; that 
is common enough. We are all run 
after by idle men ; even Signorina 
Zubetta, who has not much voice, nor 
appearance, and speaks a Genoese 
patois when she is not delivering a 
libretto. But for a gentleman of po- 
sition, with a heart of gold and the 
soul of an emperor, that he should 
waste his time and his feelings so, on 
a woman who can never be any thing 
to him, it is pitiable.” 

“ Well, but, after all, it is his busi- 
ness ; and he is not a child : besides, 
remember he is really very fond of 
music. If I were you, I’d look an- 
other way, and take no notice.” 

“ But I can not.” 

“Ah ! And why no, pray?” 

“ Because he always takes a box on 
my left hand, two from the stage. I 
can’t think how he gets it at all the 
theatres. And then he fixes his eyes 
on me so, I can not help stealing a 
look. He never applauds, nor throws 
me bouquets. He looks : oh, you can 
not conceive how he looks, and the 
strange effect it is beginning to pro- 
duce on me.” 

“ He mesmerizes you?” 

“ I know not. But it is a growing 
fascination. Oh, my dear physician, 
interfere. If it goes on, we shall be 
more wretched than ever.” Then she 
enveloped Rlioda in her arms, and 
rested a hot cheek against hers. 

“I see,” said Rhoda. “You are 
afraid he will make you love him.” 

“ I hope not. But artists are im- 
pressionable ; and being looked at so, 
by one I esteem, night after night 


when my nerves are strung — cela 
m'agace and she gave a shiver, and 
then was a little hysterical; and that 
was very unlike her. 

Rhoda kissed her, and said reso- 
lutely she would stop it. 

“Not unkindly?” 

“Oh no.” 

“ You will not tell him it is offen- 
sive to me ?” 

“No.” 

“Pray do not give him unnecessary 
pain.” 

“No.” 

“ He is not to be mortified. 5 ' 

“No.” 

“ I shall miss him sadly. 55 

“Shall you?” 

“Naturally. Especially at each 
new place. Only conceive : one is al- 
ways anxious on the stage ; and it is 
one thing to come before a public all 
strangers, and nearly all poor judges ; 
it is another to see, all ready for your 
first note, a noble face bright with in- 
telligence and admiration — the face 
of a friend. Often that one face is 
the only one I allow myself to see. 
It hides the whole public.” 

“Then don’t you be silly and send 
it away. I’ll tell you the one fault of 
yodr character: you think too much 
of other people, and too little of your- 
self. Now, that is contrary to the 
scheme of nature. We are sent into 
the world to take care of number one.” 

“What!” said Ina; “are we to 
be all self-indulgence ? Is there to be 
no principle, no womanly prudence, 
foresight, discretion? No; I feel the 
sacrifice : but no power shall hinder 
me from making it. If you can not 
persuade him, I’ll do like other sing- 
ers. I will be ill, and quit the com- 
pany.” 

“ Don’t do that,” said Rhoda. 
“Now you have put on your iron 
look, it is no use arguing — I know 
that to my cost. There — I will talk 
to him. Only don’t hurry me; let 
me take my opportunity.” 

This being understood, Ina would 
not part with her for the present, but 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


231 


took her to the theatre. She dismiss- 
ed her dresser, at Rhoda’s request, 
and Rlioda filled that office. So they 
could talk freely. 

Rhoda had never been behind the 
scenes of a theatre before, and she 
went prying about, ignoring the mu- 
sic, for she was almost earless. Pres- 
ently, whom should she encounter but 
Edward Severne. She started, and 
looked at him like a basilisk. He re- 
moved his hat, and drew back a step 
with a great air of respect and humil- 
ity. She was shocked and indignant 
with Ina for letting him be about her. 
She followed her off the stage into her 
dressing-room, and took her to task. 
“I have seen Mr. Severne here.” 

“ He comes every night.” 

“And you allow him?” 

“It is the manager.” 

“But he would not admit him, if 
you objected.” 

“I am afraid to do that.” 

“Why ?” 

“ We should have an esclandre. I 
find he has had so much consideration 
for me as to tell no one our relation ; 
and as he has never spoken to me, I 
do the most prudent thing I can, and 
take no notice. Should he attempt 
to intrude himself on me, then it will 
be time to have him stopped in the 
hall, and I shall do it coute que coute. 
Ah, my dear friend, mine is a difficult 
and trying position.” 

After a very long wait, Ina went 
down and sung her principal song, 
with the usual bravas and thunders of 
applause. She was called on twice, 
and as she retired, Severne stepped 
forward, and, with a low, obsequious 
bow, handed her a beautiful bouquet. 
She took it with a stately courtesy, 
but never looked nor smiled. Rhoda 
saw that and wondered. She thought 
to herself, “That is carrying polite- 
ness a long way. To be sure, she is 
half a foreigner.” 

Having done his nightly homage, 
Severne left the theatre, and soon aft- 
erward the performance concluded, 
and Ina took her friend home. 


Ashmead was in the hall to show 
his patroness to her carriage — a duty 
he never failed in. Rhoda shook 
hands with him, and he said, “De- 
lighted to see you here, miss. You 
will be a great comfort to her.” 

The two friends communed till two 
o’clock in the morning : but the limits 
of my tale forbid me to repeat what 
passed. Suffice it to say that Rhoda 
was fairly puzzled by the situation ; 
but, having a great regard for Vizard, 
saw clearly enough that he ought to be 
sent back to Islip. She thought that 
perhaps the very sight of her would 
wound his pride, and, finding his ma- 
nia discovered by a third person, he 
would go of his own accord : so she 
called on him. 

My lord received her with friendly 
composure, and all his talk was about 
Islip. He did not condescend to ex- 
plain his presence at Carlisle. He 
knew that qui s' excuse s' accuse, and 
left her to remonstrate. She had 
hardly courage for that, and hoped it 
might be unnecessary. 

She told Ina what she had done. 
But her visit was futile: at night 
there was Vizard in his box. 

Next day the company opened in 
Manchester. Vizard was in his box 
there — Severne in front, till Ina’s prin- 
cipal song. Then he came round and 
presented his bouquet. But this time 
he came up to Rhoda Gale, and asked 
her whether a penitent man inighUpay 
his respects to her in the morning. 

She said she believed there were 
very few penitents in the world. 

“ I know one,” said he. 

“Well, I don’t, then,” said the vi- 
rago. “ But you can come, if you are 
not afraid.” 

Of course Ina Klosking knew of 
this appointment two minutes after 
it was made. She merely said, “Do 
not let him talk you over.” 

“ He is not so likely to talk me over 
as you,” said Rhoda. 

“ You are mistaken,” was Ina’s re- 
ply. “I am the one person he will 
never deceive again.” 


232 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


Rhoda Gale received his visit : he 
did not beat about the bush, nor fence 
at all. He declared at once what he 
came for. He said, “At the first 
sight of you, whom I have been so 
ungrateful to, I could not speak ; but 
now I throw myself on your forgive- 
ness. I think you must have seen 
that my ingratitude has never sat light 
on me.” 

‘ ‘ I have seen that you were terribly 
afraid of me,” said she. 

“I dare say I was. But I am not 
afraid of you now ; and here, on my 
knees, I implore you to forgive my 
baseness, my ingratitude. Oh, Miss 
Gale, you don’t know what it is to be 
madly in love ; one has no principle, 
no right feeling, against a real pas- 
sion: and I was madly in love with 
her. It was through fear of losing 
her I disowned my physician, my ben- 
efactress, who had saved my life. 
Miserable wretch! It was through 
fear of losing her that I behaved like 
a ruffian to my angel wife, and would 
have committed bigamy, and been a 
felon. What was all this but mad- 
ness ? You, who are so wise, will you 
not forgive me a crime that downright 
insanity was the cause of?” 

“Humph! if I understand right, 
you wish me to forgive you for look- 
ing in my face, and saying to the 
woman who had saved your life, ‘ I 
don’t know you ?’ ” 

“^Tes — if you can. No : now you 
put it in plain words, I see it is not to 
be forgiven. ” 

“You are mistaken. It was like a 
stab to my heart, and I cried bitterly 
over it.” 

“Then I deserve to be hanged; 
that is all.” 

“But, on consideration, I believe 
it is as much your nature to be wick- 
ed as it is my angel Ina’s to be good. 
So I forgive you that one thing, you 
charming villain.” She held out her 
hand to him in proof of her good 
faith. 

He threw himself on his knees di- 
rectly, and kissed and mumbled her 


hand, and bedewed it with hysterical 
tears. 

“Oh, don’t do that, ’’said she; “or 
Tm bound to give you a good kick. 
I hate she-men.” 

“Give me a moment,” said he, 
“and I will be a man again.” 

He sat with his face in his hands, 
gulping a little. 

“ Come, ” said she, cocking her head 
like a keen jackdaw; “now let us 
iiave the real object of your visit.’’ 

“No, no,” said he, inadvertently — 
“another time will do for that. I 
am content with your forgiveness. 
Now I can wait.” 

“What for?” 

“Can you ask? Do you consider 
this a happy state of things ?” 

“ Certainly not. But it can’t be 
helped : and we have to thank you for 
it.” 

“It could be helped in time. If 
you would persuade her to take the 
first step.” 

“ What step?” 

“Not to disown her husband. To 
let him at least be her friend — her 
penitent, humble friend. We are 
man and wife. If I were to say so 
publicly, she would admit it. In this 
respect at least I have been generous : 
will she not be generous too ? What 
harm could it do her if we lived un- 
der the same roof, and I took her to 
the theatre, and fetched her home, 
and did little friendly offices for her ?” 

“And so got the thin edge of the 
wedge in, eh ? Mr. Severne, I de- 
cline all interference in a matter so 
delicate, and in favor of a person who 
would use her as ill as ever, if he once 
succeeded in recovering her affec- 
tions.” 

So then she dismissed him peremp- 
torily. 

But, true to Vizard’s interest, she 
called on him again, and, after a few 
preliminaries, let him know that Sev- 
erne was every night behind the scenes. 

A spasm crossed his face. “I am 
quite aware of that,” said he. “ But 
he is never admitted into her house.” 


A WOMAN-HATER 


233 


“ How do you know ?” 

“He is under constant surveil- 
lance.” 

“Spies ?” 

“No. Thief - takers. All from 

Scotland Yard.” 

“And love brings men down to 
this. What is it for ?” 

“ When I am sure of your co-oper- 
ation, I will let you know my hopes.” 

“He doubts my friendship,” said 
Rhoda, sorrowfully. 

“ No ; only your discretion.” 

“I will be discreet.” 

“Well, then, sooner or later, he is 
sure to form some improper connec- 
tion or other; and then I hope you 
will aid me in persuading her to di- 
vorce him.” 

“That is not so easy in this coun- 
try. It is not like our Western 
States, where, the saying is, they give 
you five minutes at a railway-station 
for di — vorce.” 

“You forget she is a German Prot- 
estant, and the marriage was in that 
country. It will be easy enough.” 

“Very well; dismiss it from your 
mind. She will never come before 
the public in that way. Nothing you 
nor I could urge would induce her.” 

Vizard replied, doggedly, “I will 
never despair, so long as she keeps 
him out of her house.” 

Rhoda told Ina Klosking this, and 
said, “Now it is in your own hands. 
You have only to let your charming 
villain into your house, and Mr. Viz- 
ard will return to Islip.” 

Ina Klosking buried her face in her 
hands, and thought. 

At night, Vizard in his box, as us- 
ual. Severne behind the scenes with 
his bouquet. But this night he staid 
for the ballot, to see a French dan- 
seuse who had joined them. He was 
acquainted with her before, and had a 
sprightly conversation with her. In 
other words, he renewed an old flirta- 
tion. 

The next opera night all went as 
usual. Vizard in the box, looking 
sadder than usual. Rhoda’s good 


sense had not been entirely wasted. 
Severne, with his bouquet, and his 
grave humility, until the play ended, 
and La Klosking passed out into the 
hall. Her back was hardly turned, 
when Mademoiselle Lafontaine, dress- 
ed for the ballet, in a most spicy cos- 
tume, danced up to her old friend, and 
slapped his face very softly with a rose, 
then sprung away, and stood on her 
defense. 

“I’ll have that rose,” cried Severne. 

“Nenni.” 

“And a kiss into the bargain.” 

“Jamais.” 

“C’est ce que nous verrons.” 

He chased her. She uttered a 
feigned “ Ah !” and darted away. He 
followed her ; she crossed the scene 
at the back, where it was dark, bound- 
ed over an open trap, which she saw 
just in time, but Severne, not seeing 
it, because she was between him and 
it, fell through it, and, striking the 
mazarine, fell into the cellar, fifteen 
feet below the stage. 

The screams of the dancers soon 
brought a crowd round the trap, and 
reached Mademoiselle Klosking just 
as she was going out to her carriage. 
“There!” she cried. “Another ac- 
cident!” and she came back, making 
sure it was some poor carpenter come 
to grief, as usual. On such occasions 
her purse was always ready. 

They brought Severne up sensible, 
but moaning, and bleeding at the tem- 
ple, and looking all streaky about the 
face. 

They were going to take him to the 
infirmary ; but Mademoiselle Klos- 
king, with a face of angelic pity, said, 
“No; he bleeds, he bleeds. He must 
go to my house.” 

They stared a little ; but it takes a 
good deal to astonish people in a the- 
atre. 

Severne was carried out, his head 
hastily bandaged, and he was lifted 
into La Klosking’s carriage. One of 
the people of the theatre was direct- 
ed to go on the box, and La Klosking 
and Ashmead supported him, and ho 


231 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


was taken to her lodgings. She di- 
rected him to be laid on a couch, and 
a physician sent for, Miss Gale not 
having yet returned from Liverpool, 
whither she had gone to attend a lect- 
ure. 

Ashmead went for the physician. 
But almost at the door he met Miss 
Gale and Mr. Vizard. 

“ Miss,” said he, “you are wanted. 
There has been an accident. Mr. 
Severne has fallen through a trap, and 
into the cellar.” 

“No bones broken?” 

“ Not he : he has only broken his 
head ; and that will cost her a broken 
heart. ” 

“Where is he ?” 

“Where I hoped never to see him 
again.” 

“ What! in her house?” said Rho- 
da, and hurried off at once. 

“Mr. Ashmead,” said Vizard, “a 
word with you.” 

“By all means, sir,” said Ashmead, 
“as we go for the doctor. Dr. Men- 
teith has a great name. He lives 
close by your hotel, sir.” 

As they went, Vizard asked him 
what he meant by saying this acci- 
dent would cost her a broken heart. 

“Why, sir,” said Ashmead, “he is 
on his good behavior to get back ; has 
been for months begging and praying 
just to be let live under the same roof. 
She has always refused. But some 
fellows have such luck. I don’t say 
he fell down a trap on purpose; but 
he has done it, and no broken bones, 
but plenty of blood. That is the very 
thing to overcome a woman’s feelings ; 
and she is not proof against pity. He 
will have her again. Why, she is his 
nurse now ; and see how that will 
work. We have a week’s more busi- 
ness here ; and, by bad luck, a dead 
fortnight,' all along of Dublin falling 
through unexpectedly. He is as art- 
ful as Old Nick ; he will spin out that 
broken head of his and make it last 
all the three weeks ; and she will 
nurse him, and he will be weak, and 
grateful, and cry, and beg her pardon 


six times a day, and she is only a 
woman, after all ; and they are man 
and wife, when all is done : the road 
is beaten. They will run upon it 
again, till his time is up to play the 
rogue as bad as ever.” 

“You torture me,” said Vizard. 

“I am afraid I do, sir. But I feel 
it my duty. Mr. Vizard, you are a 
noble gentleman, and I am only what 
you see ; but the humblest folk will 
have their likes and dislikes, and I 
have a great respect for you, sir. I 
can’t tell you the mixture of things I 
feel when I see you in the same box 
every night. Of course, I am her 
agent, and the house would not be 
complete without you ; but as a man 
I am sorry. Especially now that she 
has let him into her house. Take a 
humble friend’s advice, sir, and cut it. 
Don't you come between any woman 
and her husband, especially a public 
lady. She will never be more to you 
than she is. She is a good woman, 
and he must keep gaining ground. 
He has got the pull. Rouse all your 
pride, sir, and your manhood, and you 
have got plenty of both, and cut it ; 
don’t look right nor left, but cut it — 
and forgive my presumption.” 

Vizard was greatly moved. “ Give 
me your hand,” he said; “you are a 
worthy man. I’ll act on your advice, 
and never forget what I owe you. 
Stick to me like a leech, and see me 
off by the next train, for I am going 
to tear my heart out of my bosom.” 

Luckily there was a train in half an 
hour, and Ashmead saw him off ; then 
went to supper. He did not return 
to Ina’s lodgings. He did not want 
to see Severne nursed. He liked the 
fellow, too ; but he saw through him 
clean ; and he worshiped Ina Klos- 
king. 


CHAPTER XXX. 

At one o’clock next day, Ashmead 
received a note from Mademoiselle 
Klosking, saying, “Arrange with Mr. 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


235 


X to close my tour with Manches- 

ter. Pay the fortnight, if required.” 
She was with the company at a month’s 
notice on either side, you must under- 
stand. 

Instead of going to the manager, 
he went at once, in utter dismay, to 
Mademoiselle Klosking, and there 
learned in substance what I must now 
briefly relate. 

Miss Gale found Edward Severne 
deposited on a sofa. Ina was on her 
knees by his side, sponging his bleed- 
ing temple, with looks of gentle pity. 
Strange to say, the wound was in the 
same place as his wife’s, but more con- 
tused, and no large vein was divided. 
Miss Gale soon stanched that. She 
asked him where his pain was. He 
said it was in his head and his back ; and 
he cast a haggard, anxious look on her. 

“Take my arm,” said she. “Now, 
stand up.” 

He tried, but could not, and said 
his legs were benumbed. Miss Gale 
looked grave. 

“Lay him on my bed,” said La 
Klosking. “That is better than 
these hard couches.” 

“You are right,” said Miss Gale. 
“ Ring for the servants. He must be 
moved gently.” 

He was carried in, and set upon 
the edge of the bed, and his coat and 
waistcoat taken off. Then - he was 
laid gently down on the bed, and cov- 
ered with a down quilt. 

Doctress Gale then requested Ina 
to leave the room, while she question- 
ed the patient. 

Ina retired. 

In a moment or two Miss Gale 
came out to her softly. 

At sight of her face, La Klosking 
said, “Oh dear; it is more serious 
than we thought.” 

“Very serious.” 

“Poor Edward!” 

“Collect all your courage, for I 
can not lie, either to patient or friend.” 

“And you are right,” said La Klos- 
king, trembling. “I see he is in 
danger.” 


“Worse than that. Where there’s 
danger there is hope. Here there is 
none. He is a dead man !” 

“Oh no! no!” 

“ He has broken his back, and noth- 
ing can save him. His lower limbs 
have already lost sensation. Death 
will creep over the rest. Do not dis- 
turb your mind with idle hopes. You 
have two things to thank God for — 
that you took him into your own 
house, and that he will die easily. In- 
deed, were he to suffer, I should stu- 
pefy him at once, for nothing can hurt 
him.” 

Ina Klosking turned faint, and her 
knees gave way under her. Rhoda 
ministered to her ; and while she was 
so employed, Dr. Menteith was an- 
nounced. He was shown in to the 
patient, and the accident described to 
him. He questioned the patient, and 
examined him alone. 

He then came out, and said he 
would draw a prescription. He did so. 

“ Doctor,” said La Klosking, “tell 
me the truth. It can not be worse 
than I fear.” 

“Madam,” said the doctor, “med- 
icine can do nothing for him. The 
spinal cord is divided. Give him any 
thing he fancies, and my prescription 
if he suffers pain, not otherwise. Shall 
I send you a nurse ?” 

“No,” said Mademoiselle Klosking, 
“ v;e will nurse him night and day.” 

He retired, and the friends entered 
on their sad duties. 

When Severne saw them both by 
his bedside, with earnest looks of pity, 
he said, “Do not worry yourselves. 
I’m booked for the long journey. A h, 
well, I shall die where I ought to have 
lived, and might have, if I had not 
been a fool.” 

Ina wept bitterly. 

They nursed him night and day. 
He suffered little, and when he did, 
Miss Gale stupefied the pain at once ; 
for, as she truly said, “ Nothing can 
hurt him.” Vitality gradually retired 
to his head, and lingered there a whole 
day. But, to his last moment, the art 


236 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


of pleasing never abandoned him. In- 
stead of worrying for this or that ev- 
ery moment, he showed in this desper- 
ate condition singular patience and 
well-bred fortitude. He checked his 
wife’s tears; assured her it was all 
for the best, and that he was recon- 
ciled to the inevitable. “I have had a 
happier time than I deserve,” said lie, 
“and now I have a painless death, 
nursed by two sweet women. My 
only regret is that I shall not be able 
to repay your devotion, Iua, nor be- 
come worthy of your friendship, Miss 
Gale.” 

He died without fear, it being his 
conviction that he should return after 
death to the precise condition in which 
he was before birth ; and when they 
begged him to see a clergyman, he 
said, “Pray do not give yourselves or 
him that trouble. I can melt back 
into the universe without his assist- 
ance.” 

He even died content ; for this pol- 
ished Bohemian had often foreseen 
that, if he lived long, he should die 
miserably. 

But the main feature of his end 
was his extraordinary politeness. He 
paid Miss Gale compliments just as if 
he were at his ease on a sofa : and 
scarce an hour before his decease he 
said, faintly, “ I declare — I have been 
so busy — dying — I have forgotten to 
send my kind regards to good Mr. 
Ashmead. Pray tell him I did not 
forget his kindness to me.” 

He just ceased to live, so quiet was 
his death, and a smile rested on his 
dead features, and they were as beau- 
tiful as ever. 

So ended a fair, pernicious creature, 
endowed too richly with the art of 
pleasing, and quite devoid of principle. 
Few bad men knew right so well, and 
went so wrong. 

Ina buried her face for hours on his 
bed, and kissed his cold features and 
hand. She had told him before he 
died she would recall all her resolu- 
tions, if he would live. But he was 
gone. Death buries a man’s many 


faults, and his few virtues rise again. 
She mourned him sincerely, and would 
not be comforted; she purchased a 
burying-place forever, and laid him in 
it ; then she took her aching heart far 
away, and was lost to the public and 
to all her English friends. 

The faithful Rhoda accompanied 
her half-way to London ; then return- 
ed to her own duties in Barfordshire. 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

I must now retrograde a little to 
relate something rather curious, and 
I hope not uninteresting. 

Zoe Vizard had been for some time 
acting on Mrs. Gale’s advice ; build- 
ing, planning for the good of the poor, 
and going out of herself more and 
more. She compared notes constant- 
ly with Miss Gale, and conceived a 
friendship for her. It had been a 
long time coming, because at first she 
disliked Miss Gale’s manners very 
much. But that lady had nursed her 
tenderly, and now advised her, and 
Zoe, who could not do any thing by 
halves, became devoted to her. 

As she warmed to her good work, 
she gave signs of clearer judgment. 
She never mentioned Severne; but 
she no longer absolutely avoided Ina 
Ivlosking’s name ; and one day she 
spoke of her as a high - principled 
woman ; for which the Gale kissed 
her on the spot. 

One name she often uttered, and 
always with regret and self-reproach 
— Lord Uxmoor’s. I think that, now 
she was herself building and planning 
for the permanent improvement of the 
poor, she felt the tie of a kindred sen- 
timent. Uxmoor was her predecessor 
in this good work, too; and would 
have been her associate, if she had not 
been so blind. This thought struck 
deep in her. Her mind ran more 
and more on Uxmoor, his manliness, 
his courage in her defense, and his 


237 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


gentlemanly fortitude and bravery in 
leaving her, without a word, at her 
request. Running over ‘all these, she 
often blushed with shame, and her 
eyes filled with sorrow at thinking of 
how she had treated him ; and lost 
him forever by not deserving him. 

She even made oblique and timid 
inquiries, but could learn nothing of 
him, except that he sent periodical 
remittances to Miss Gale, for mana- 
ging his improvements. These, how 
ever, came in through a country agent 
from a town agent, and left no clue. 

But one fine day, with no warning 
except to his own people. Lord Ux- 
moor came home ; and the next day 
rode to Hillstoke to talk matters over 
with Miss Gale. He was fortunate 
enough to find her at home. He 
thanked her for the zeal and enthusi- 
asm she had shown, and the progress 
his works had made under her super- 
vision. 

He was going away without even 
mentioning the Vizard family. 

But the crafty Gale detained him. 
“Going to Vizard Court?” said she. 

“ No,” said he, very dryly. 

“Ah, I understand; but perhaps 
you would not mind going with me 
as far as Islip. There is something 
there I wish you to see. ” 

“ Humph ? Is it any thing very 
particular? Because — ” 

“ It is. Three cottages rising, with 
little flower-gardens in front. Square 
plots behind, and arrangements for 
breeding calves, with other ingenious 
novelties. A new head come into our 
business, my lord.” 

“You have converted Vizard? I 
thought you would. He is a satirical 
fellow, but he will listen to reason.” 

“ No, it is not Mr. Vizard ; indeed, 
it is no convert of mine. It is an in- 
dependent enthusiast. But I really 
believe your work at home had some 
hand in firing her enthusiasm.” 

“A lady ! I)o I know her?” 

“You may. I suppose you know 
every body in Barfordshire. Will 
you come? Do!” 


‘ ‘ Of course I will come, Miss Gale. 
Please tell one of your people to walk 
my horse down after us.” 

She had her hat on in a moment, 
and walked him down to Islip. 

Her tongue was not idle on the 
road. ‘ ‘ You don’t ask after the peo- 
ple, ’’said she. “There’s poor Miss 
Vizard. She had a sad illness. We 
were almost afraid we should lose 
her. ” 

“Heaven forbid!” said Uxmoor, 
startled by this sudden news. 

“Mademoiselle Klosking got quite 
well ; and oh ! what do you think ? 
Mr. Severne turned out to be her hus- 
band.” 

“What is that?” shouted Uxmoor, 
and stopped dead short. “Mr. Sev- 
erne a married man !” 

“Yes ; and Mademoiselle Klosking 
a married woman.” 

“You amaze me. Why, that Mr. 
Severne was paying his attentions to 
Miss Vizard.” 

“So I used to fancy,” said Rhoda, 
carelessly. “But you see it came 
out he was married, and so of course 
she packed him off with a flea in his 
ear. ” 

“Did she? When was that?” 

“Let me see, it was the 17th of 
October.” 

“Why, that was the very day I left 
England.” 

“How odd! Why did you not 
stay another week? Gentlemen are 
so impatient. Never mind, that is 
an old story now. Here we are; 
those are the cottages. The work- 
men are at dinner. Ten to one the 
enthusiast is there : this is her time. 
You stay here. I’ll go and see.” 
She went off on tiptoe, and peeped 
and pried here and there, like a young 
witch. Presently she took a few 
steps toward him, with her finger mys- 
teriously to her lips, and beckoned 
him. He entered into the pantomime 
— she seemed so earnest in it — and 
came to her softly. 

“Do just take a peep in at that 
opening for a door,” said she, “then 


238 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


you’ll see her; her back is turned. 
She is lovely; only, you know, she 
has been ill, and I don’t think she is 
very happy.” 

Uxmoor thought this peeping at en- 
thusiasts rather an odd proceeding, 
but Miss Gale had primed his curi- 
osity, and he felt naturally proud of a 
female pupil. He stepped up light- 
ly, looked in at the door, and, to his 
amazement, saw Zoe Vizard sitting 
on a carpenter’s bench, with her love- 
ly head in the sun’s rays. He start- 
ed, then gazed, then devoured her with 
his eyes. 

What ! was this his pupil ? 

How gentle and sad she seemed! 
All his stoicism melted at the sight 
of her. She sat in a sweet, pensive 
attitude, pale and drooping, but, to his 
fancy, lovelier than ever. She gave a 
little sigh. His heart yearned. She 
took out a letter, read it slowly, and 
said, softly and slowly, “Poor fel- 
low!” He thought he recognized his 
own handwriting, and could stand no 
more. He rushed in, and was going 
to speak to her; but she screamed, 
and no conjurer ever made a card dis- 
appear quicker than she did that let- 
ter, as she bounded away like a deer, 
and stood, blushing scarlet, and palpi- 
tating all over. 

Uxmoor was ashamed of his brus- 
querie. 

“What a brute I am to frighten 
you like this!” said he. “Pray for- 
give me; but the sight of you, after 
all these weary months — and you said 
‘Poor fellow!’” 

“Did I?” said Zoe, faintly, look- 
ing scared. 

“Yes, sweet Zoe, and you were 
reading a letter.” 

No reply. 

“I thought the poor fellow might 
be myself. Not that I am to be pit- 
ied, if you think of me still.” 

“I do, then — very often. Oh, 
Lord Uxmoor, I want to go down on 
my knees to you.” 

“That is odd, now ; for it is exact- 
ly what I should like to do to you.” 


“What for? It is I who have be* 
haved so ill.” 

“ Never mind that ; I love you.” 

“ But you mustn’t. You must love 
some worthy person.” 

“ Oh, you leave that to me. I have 
no other intention. But may I just 
see whose letter you were reading ?” 

“ Oh, pray don’t ask me.” 

“I insist on knowing.” 

“ I will not tell you. There it is.” 
She gave it to him with a guilty air, 
and hid her face. 

“ Dear Zoe, suppose I were to re- 
peat the offer I made here ?” 

‘ ‘ I advise you not, ” said she, all in 
a flurry. 

“Why?” 

“Because. Because — I might say 
‘Yes.’” 

“Well, then I’ll take my chance 
once more. Zoe, will you try and 
love me ?” 

“ Try ? I believe I do love you, or 
nearly. I think of you very often.” 

“Then you will do something to 
make me happy.” 

“Anything; everything.” 

“Will you marry me?” 

“Yes, that I will,” said Zoe, al- 
most impetuously ; “and then,” with 
a grand look of conscious beauty, “I 
can make you forgive me. ” 

Uxmoor, on this, caught her in his 
arms, and kissed her with such fire 
that she uttered a little stifled cry of 
alarm ; but it was soon followed "by a 
sigh of complacency, and she sunk, 
resistless, on his manly breast. 

So, after two sieges, he carried that 
fair citadel by assault. 

Then let not the manly heart de- 
spair, nor take a mere brace of “Noes” 
from any woman. Nothing short of 
three negatives is serious. 

They walked out arm-in-arm, and 
very close to each other ; and he left 
her, solemnly engaged. 

Leaving this pair to the delights of 
courtship, and growing affection on 
Zoe’s side — for a warm attachment of 
the noblest kind did grow, by degrees, 

I out of her penitence and esteem, and 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


239 


desire to repair her fault — I must now 
take up the other thread of this nar- 
rative, and apologize for having in- 
verted the order of events ; for it was, 
in reality, several days after this hap- 
py scene that Mademoiselle Klosking 
sent for Miss Gale. 


CHAPTER XXXII. 

Vizard, then, with Ashmead, re- 
turned home in despair; and Zoe, 
now happy in her own mind, was all 
tenderness and sisterly consolation. 
They opened their hearts to each oth- 
er, and she showed her wish to repay 
the debt she owed him. How far she 
might have succeeded, in time, will 
never be known. For he had hardly 
been home a week, when Miss Gale 
returned, all in black, and told him 
Severne was dead and buried. 

He was startled, and even shocked, 
remembering old times ; but it was 
not in human nature he should be sor- 
ry. Not to be indecorously glad at so 
opportune an exit was all that could 
be expected from him. 

When she had given him the de- 
tails, his first question was, “How 
did she bear it ?” 

“ She is terribly cut up — more than 
one would think possible ; for she was 
ice and marble to him before he was 
hurt to death.” 

‘ ‘ Where is she ?” 

“Gone to London. She will write 
to me, I suppose — poor dear. But 
one must give her time.” 

From that hour Vizard was in a 
state of excitement, hoping to hear 
from Ina Klosking, or about her; but 
unwilling, from delicacy, to hurry 
matters. 

At last he became impatient, and 
wrote to Ashmead, whose address he 
had, and said, frankly, he had a deli- 
cacy in intruding on Mademoiselle 
Klosking, in her grief. Yet his own 
feelings would not allow him to seem 
to neglect her. Would Mr. Ashmead, 


then, tell him where she was, as she 
had not written to any one in Bar- 
fordshire — not even to her tried friend, 
Miss Gale. 

He received an answer by return 
of post : 

“Dear Sir, — I am grieved to tell 
you that Mademoiselle Klosking has 
retired from public life. She wrote 
to me, three weeks ago, from Dover, 
requesting me to accept, as a token 
of her esteem, the surplus money I 
hold in hand for her — I always drew 
her salary — and bidding me farewell. 
The sum included her profits by psal- 
mody, minus her expenses, and was 
so large it could never have been in- 
tended as a mere recognition of my 
humble services ; and I think I have 
seldom felt so down-hearted as on re- 
ceiving this princely donation. It has 
enabled me to take better offices, and 
it may be the foundation of a little 
fortune ; but I feel that I have lost 
the truly great lady who has made a 
man of me. Sir, the relish is gone 
for my occupation. I can never be so 
happy as I was in working the inter- 
ests of that great genius, whose voice 
made our leading soprani sound like 
whistles, and who honored me with 
her friendship. Sir, she was not like 
other leading ladies. She never 
bragged, never spoke ill of any one; 
and you can testify to her virtue and 
her discretion. 

“I am truly sorry to learn from 
you that she has written to no one in 
Barfordshire. I saw, by her letter to 
me, she had left the stage; but her 
dropping you all looks as if she had 
left the world. I do hope she has 
not been so mad as to go into one of 
those cursed convents. 

“Mr. Vizard, I will now write to 
friends in all the Continental towns 
where there is good music. She will 
not be able to keep away from that 
long. I will also send photographs; 
and hope we may hear something. 
If not, perhaps a judicious advertise- 
ment might remind her that she is 


9 40 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


inflicting pain upon persons to whom 
she is dear. I am, sir, your obliged 
and grateful servant, 

“Joseph Ashmead.” 

Here was a blow. I really believe 
Vizard felt this more deeply than all 
his other disappointments. 

He brooded over it for a day or 
two; and then, as he thought Miss 
Gale a very ill - used person, though 
not, of course, so ill-used as himself, 
he took her Ashmead’s letter. 

“ This is nice !” said she. “ There 
— I must give up loving women. Be- 
sides, they throw me over the moment 
a man comes, if it happens to be the 
right one.” 

“Unnatural creatures!” said Vizard. 

“Ungrateful, at all events.” 

“Do you think she has gone into a 
convent ?” 

“Not she. In the first place, she 
is a Protestant; and, in the second, 
she is not a fool.” 

“ I will advertise.” 

“The idea!” 

“Do you think I am going to sit 
down with my hands before me, and 
lose her forever ?” 

“No, indeed; I don’t think you 
are that sort of man at all, ha! ha!” 

“ Oh, Miss Gale, pity me. Tell me 
how to find her. That Fanny Dover 
says women are only enigmas to men ; 
they understand one another.” 

“ What,” said Rhoda, turning swift- 
ly on him ; “does that little chit pre- 
tend to read my noble Ina?” 

“If she can not, perhaps you can. 
You are so shrewd. Do tell me, what 
does it all mean ?” 

“It means nothing at all, I dare 
say ; only a woman’s impulse. They 
are such geese at times, every one of 
them.” 

“ Oh, if I did but know what coun- 
try she is in, I would ransack it.” 

“ Hum ! — countries are biggish 
places.” 

“I don’t care.” 

“ What will you give me to tell you 
where she is at this moment ?” 


“ All I have in the world.” 

“That is sufficient. Well, then, 
first assign me your estates ; then 
fetch me an ordnance map of crea- 
tion, and I will put my finger on her.” 

“You little mocking fiend, you !” 

“ I am not. I’m a tall, beneficent 
angel ; and I’ll tell you where she is 
— for nothing. Keep your land : who 
wants it-? — it is only a bother.” 

“For pity’s sake, don’t trifle with 
me.” 

“ I never will, where your heart is 
interested. She is at Zutzig.” 

“Ah, you good girl! She has 
written to you.” 

“Not a line, the monster! And 
I’ll serve her out. I’ll teach her to 
play hide-and-seek with Gale, M.D. !” 

“ Zutzig !” said Vizard ; “ how can 
you know ?” 

“What does that matter? Well, 
yes — I will reveal the mental process. 
First of all, she has gone to her moth- 
er.” 

“ How do you know that?” 

“Oh, dear, dear, dear! Because 
that is where every daughter goes in 
trouble. I should — she has. Fancy 
you not seeing that — why, Fanny 
Dover would have t®ld you that much 
in a moment. But now you will have 
to thank my mother for teaching me 
Attention, the parent of Memory. 
Pray, sir, who were the witnesses to 
that abominable marriage of hers ?” 

“I remember two, Baron Hom- 
pesch — ” 

“No, Count Hompesch.” 

“And Count Meurice.” 

“Viscount. What, have you for- 
gotten Herr Formes, Fiaulein Graafe, 
Ztig the Capellmeister, and her very 
mother? Come now, whose daughter 
is she ?” 

“I forget, I’m sure.” 

“ Walter Ferris and Eva Klosking, 
of Zutzig, in Denmark. Pack — start 
for Copenhagen. Consult an ordnance 
map there. Find out Zutzig. Go to 
Zutzig, and you have got her. It is 
some hole in a wilderness, and she 
can’t escape.” 


241 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


“You clever little angel! I’ll be 
there in three days. Do you really 
think I shall succeed ?” 

“ Your own fault if you don’t. She 
has run into a cul-de-sac through be- 
ing too clever; and, besides, women 
sometimes run away just to be caught, 
and hide on purpose to be found. I 
should not wonder if she has said to 
herself, ‘ He will find me if he loves me 
so very, very much — I'll try him.’” 

“Not a word more, angelic fox,” 
said Vizard ; “ I’m off to Zutzig.” 

He went out on fire. She opened 
the window, and screeched after him, 
“Every thing is fair after her be- 
havior to me. Take her a book of 
those spiritual songs she is so fond of. 
‘Johnny comes marching home,’ is 
worth the lot, I reckon.” 

Away went Vizard ; found Copen- 
hagen with ease ; Zutzig with diffi- 
culty, being a small village. But once 
there, he soon found the farm-house of 
Eva Klosking. He drove up to the 
door. A Danish laborer came out 
from the stable directly ; and a buxom 
girl, with pale golden hair, opened the 
door. These two seized his luggage, 
and conveyed it into the house, and 
the hired vehicle to the stable. Vizard 
thought it must be an inn. 

The girl bubbled melodious sounds, 
and ran off and brought a sweet, ven- 
erable dame. Vizard recognized Eva 
Klosking at once. 

The old lady said, “ Few strangers 
come here — are you not English ?” 

“ Yes, madam.” 

“ It is Mr. Vizard — is it not ?” 

“Yes, madam.” 

“Ah, sir, my daughter will wel- 
come you, but not more heartily than 
I do. My child has told me all she 
owes to you ” — then in Danish, “ God 
bless the hour you come under this 
roof. ” 

Vizard’s heart beat tumultuously, 
wondering how Ina Klosking would 
receive him. The servant had told 
her a tall stranger was come. She 
knew in a moment who it was ; so she 
had the advantage of being prepared. 

ii 


She came to him, her cheeks dyed 
with blushes, and gave him both 
hands. “ You here !” said she ; “oh, 
happy day ! Mother, he must have the 
south chamber. I will go and prepare 
it for him. Tecla ! — Tecla!” — and 
she was all hostess. She committed 
him to her mother, while she and the 
servant went upstairs. 

He felt discomfited a little. He 
wanted to know, all in a moment, 
whether she would love him. 

However, Danish hospitality has its 
good side. He soon found out he 
might live the rest of his days there if 
he chose. 

He soon got her alone, and said, 
“ You knew I should find you, cruel 
one.” 

“How could I dream of such a 
thing?” said she, blushing. 

“Oh, Love is a detective. You 
said to yourself, ‘ 1 f he loves me as I 
ought to be loved, he will search Eu- 
rope for me ; but he will find me.’ ” 

“ Oh, then it was not to be at peace 
and rest on my mother’s bosom I came 
here; it was to give you the trouble 
of running after me. Oh, fie!” 

‘ ‘ You are right. I am a vain fool. ” 

“No, that you are not. After all, 
how do I know all that was in my 
heart ? (Ahem !) Be sure of this, you 
are very welcome. I must go and see 
about your dinner.” 

In that Danish farm-house life was 
very primitive. Eva Klosking, and 
both her daughters, helped the two 
female servants, or directed them, in 
every department. So Ina, who was 
on her defense, had many excuses for 
escaping Vizard, when he pressed her 
too hotly. But at last she was obliged 
to say, “Oh, pray, my friend — we are 
in Denmark : here widows are expect- 
ed to be discreet.” 

“ But that is no reason why the En- 
glish fellows who adore them should 
be discreet.” 

“Perhaps not: but then the Da- 
nish lady runs away.” 

Which she did. 

But, after the bustle of the first day, 


242 


Al WOMAN-HATER. 


he had so many opportunities. He 
walked with her, sat with her while 
she worked, and hung over her, en- 
tranced, while she sung. He produced 
the book from Vizard Court without 
warning, and she screamed with de- 
light at sight of it, and caught his hand 
in both hers, and kissed it. She rev- 
eled in those sweet strains which had 
comforted her in affliction : and oh, 
the eyes she turned on him after sing- 
ing any song in this particular book ! 
Those tender glances thrilled him to 
the very marrow. 

To tell the honest truth, his arrival 
was a godsend to Ina Klosking. When 
she first came home to her native 
place, and laid her head on her moth- 
er’s bosom, she was in Elysium. The 
house, the wood fires, the cooing doves, 
the bleating calves, the primitive life, 
the recollections of childhood — all were 
balm to her, and she felt like ending 
her days there. But, as the days roll- 
ed on, came a sense of monotony, and 
excessive tranquillity. She was on the 
verge of ennui when Vizard broke in 
upon her. 

From that moment there was no 
stagnation. He made life very pleas- 
ant to her ; only her delicacy took the 
alarm at his open declarations ; she 
thought them so premature. 

At last he said to her, one day, “ I 
begin to fear you will never love me 
as I love you.” 

“ Who knows ?” said she. “ Time 
works wonders.” 

“ I wonder,” said he, “whether you 
will ever marry any other man ?” 

Ina was shocked at that. “Oh, 
my friend, how could I — unless,” said 
she, with a sly side-glance, “you con- 
sented.” 

‘ ‘ Consent ? I’d massacre him. ” 

Ina turned toward him. “You 
asked my hand at a time when you 
thought me — I don’t know what you 
thought — that is a thing no woman 
could forget. And now you have 
come all this way for me. I am yours, 
if you can wait for me.” 

He caught her in his arms. She 


disengaged herself, gently, and her 
hand rested an unnecessary moment 
on his shoulder. “Is that how you 
understand ‘waiting?’” said she, with 
a blush, but an indulgent smile. 

“ What is the use waiting?” 

“ It is a matter of propriety.” 

“ How long are we to wait ?” 

“Only a few months. My friend, 
it is like a boy to be too impatient, 
Alas ! would you marry me in my 
widow’s cap ?” 

“Of course I would. Now, Ina, 
love, a widow who has been two years 
separated from her husband!” 

“ Certainly, that makes a difference 
— in one’s own mind. But one must 
respect the opinion of the world. Hear 
friend, it is of you I think, though I 
speak of myself.” 

“You are an angel. Take your 
own time. After all, what does it 
matter? I don’t leave Zutzig with- 
out you.” 

Ina’s pink tint and sparkling eyes 
betrayed any thing but horror at that 
insane resolution. However, she felt 
it her duty to say that it was unfortu- 
nate she should always be the person 
to distract him from his home duties. 

“Oh, never mind them,” said this 
single-hearted lover. “I have ap- 
pointed Miss Gale viceroy.” 

However, one day he had a letter 
from Zoe, telling him that Lord Ux- 
moor was now urging her to name the 
day ; but she had declined to do that, 
not knowing when it might suit him 
to be at Vizard Court. “But, dear- 
est,” said she, “mind, you are not to 
hurry home for me. I am very hap- 
py as I am, and I hope you will soon 
be as happy, love. She is a noble 
woman.” 

The latter part of this letter tempted 
Vizard to show it to Ina. He soon 
found his mistake. She kissed it, and 
ordered him off. He remonstrated. 
She put on, for the first time in Den- 
mark, her marble look, and said, 
“You will lessen my esteem, if you 
are cruel to your sister. Let her name 
the wedding-day at once; and you 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


must be there to give her away, and 
bless her union, with a brother’s love.” 

He submitted, but a little sullenly, 
and said it was very hard. 

He wrote to his sister, accordingly, 
and she named the day, and Vizard 
settled to start for home, and be in 
time. 

As to the proprieties, he had in- 
Btruci'ed Miss Maitland and Fanny 
Dover, and given them and La Gale 
carte-blcinche. It was to be a mag- 
nificent wedding. 

This being excitement, Fanny Do- 
ver was in paradise. Moreover, a 
rosy -cheeked curate had taken the 
place of the venerable vicar, and Miss 
Dover’s threat to flirt out the stigma 
of a nun was executed with prompti- 
tude, zeal, pertinacity, and the dexter- 
ity that comes of practice. When the 
day came for his leaving Zutzig, Viz- 
ard was dejected. “Who knows when 
we may meet again ?” said he. 

Ina consoled him. “ Do not be 
cad, dear friend. You are doing your 
duty ; and as you do it partly to please 
me, I ought to try and reward you ; 
ought I not ?” And she gave him a 
Strange look. 

“I advise you not to press that 
question,” said he. 

At the very hour of parting, Ina’s 
eyes were moist with tenderness, but 
there was a smile on her face very ex- 
pressive ; yet he could not make out 
what it meant. She did not cry. He 
thought that hard. It was his opin- 
ion that women could always cry. She 
might have done the usual thing just 
to gratify him. 

He reached home in good time : and 
played the grand seigneur — nobody 
could do it better when driven to it — 
to do honor to his sister. She was a 
peerless bride : she stood superior with 
ebon locks and coal-black eyes, encir- 
cled by six brides-maids — all picked 
blondes. The bevy, with that glori- 
ous figure in the middle, seemed one 
glorious and rare flower. 

After the wedding, the breakfast ; 
and then the traveling-carriage; the 


243 

four liveried postilions bedecked with 
favors. 

But the bride wept on Vizard’s 
neck ; and a light seemed to leave the 
house when she was gone. The car- 
riages kept driving away one after an- 
other till four o’clock : and then Viz- 
ard sat disconsolate in his study, and 
felt very lonely. 

Yet a thing no bigger than a leaf 
sufficed to drive away this sombije 
mood, a piece of amber-colored papet 
scribbled on with a pencil : a telegram 
from Ashmead : “Good news: lost 
sheep turned up. Is now with her 
mother at Claridge’s Hotel.” 

Then Vizard was in raptures. Now 
he understood Ina’s composure, and 
the half-sly look she had given him, 
and her dry eyes at parting, and other 
things. He tore up to London direct- 
ly, with a telegram flying ahead : burst 
in upon her, and had her in his arms 
in a moment, before her mother : she 
fenced no longer, but owned he had 
gained her love, as he had deserved it 
in every way. 

She consented to be married that 
week in London : only she asked for 
a Continental tour before entering 
Vizard Court as his wife; but she 
did not stipulate even for that — she 
only asked it submissively, as one 
whose duty it now was to obey, not 
dictate. 

They were married in St. George’s 
Church very quietly, by special license. 
Then they saw her mother off, and 
crossed to Calais. They spent two 
happy months together on the Conti- 
nent, and returned to London. 

But Vizard was too old-fashioned, 
and too proud of his wife, to sneak 
into Vizard Court with her. He did 
not make it a county matter; but he 
gave the village such a fete as had 
not been seen for many a day. The 
preparations were intrusted to Mr. 
Ashmead, at Ina’s request. “ He will 
be sure to make it theatrical,” she 
said; “but perhaps the simple villa- 
gers will admire that, and it will amuse 
you and me, love : and the poor dear 


244 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


old Thing will be in his glory — I hope 
he will not drink too much.” 

Ashmead was indeed in his glory. 
Nothing had been seen in a play that 
he did not electrify Islip with, and the 
surrounding villages. He pasted large 
posters on walls and barn-doors, and 
his small bills curled round the patri- 
archs of the forest and the road-side 
trees, and blistered the gate-posts. 

The day came. A soapy-pole, with 
a leg of mutton on high for the success- 
ful climber. Races in sacks. Short 
blindfold races with wheelbarrows. 
Pig with a greasy tail, to be won by 
him who could catch him and shoul- 
der him, without touching any other 
part of him ; bowls of treacle for the 
boys to duck heads in and fish out 
coins ; skittles, nine-pins, Aunt Sally, 
etc., etc., etc. 

But what astonished the villagers 
most was a May-pole, with long rib- 
bons, about which ballet-girls, undis- 
guised as Highlanders, danced, and 
wound and unwound the party-color- 
ed streamers, to the merry fiddle, and 
then danced reels upon a platform, 
then returned to their little tern : duc 
out again and danced hornpipes un- 
disguised as Jacky Tars. 

Beer flowed from a sturdy regiment 
of barrels. “ The Court ” kitchen and 
the village bakehouse kept pouring 
forth meats, baked, boiled, and roast ; 
there was a pile of loaves like a hay- 
stack ; and they roasted an ox whole 
on the Green ; and, when they found 
they were burning him raw, they 
fetched the butcher, like sensible fel- 
lows, and dismembered the giant, and 
so roasted him reasonably. 

In the midst of the reveling and 
feasting, Vizard and Mrs. Vizard were 
driven into Islip village in the fam- 
ily coach, with four horses streaming 
with ribbons. 

They drove round the Green, bow- 
ing and smiling in answer to the ac- 
clamations and blessings of the poor, 
and then to Vizard Court. The great 
doors flew open. The servants, male 
and female, lined the hall on both 


sides, and received her bowing and 
courtesving low, on the very spot where 
she had nearly met her death; her 
husband took her hand and conducted 
her in state to her own apartment. 

It was open house to all that joy- 
ful day, and at night magnificent fire- 
works on the sweep, seen from the 
drawing-room by Mrs. Vizard, Miss 
Maitland, Miss Gale, Miss Dover, and 
the rosy -cheeked curate, whom she 
had tied to her apron-strings. 

At two in the morning, Mr. Harris 
showed Mr. Ashmead to his couch. 
Both gentlemen went up the stairs a 
little graver than any of our modem 
judges, and firm as a rock ; but their 
firmness resembled that of a roof 
rather than a wall ; for these dignities 
as they went made one inverted V — 
so, A. 

It is time the “Woman-hater” drew 
to a close, for the woman - hater is 
spoiled. He begins sarcastic speech- 
es, from force of habit, but stops short 
in the middle. He is a very happy 
™«n, and owes it to a woman, and 
Knows it. He adores her ; and to love 
well is to be happy. But, besides that, 
she watches over his happiness and his 
good with that unobtrusive but minute 
vigilance which belongs to her sex, 
and is often misapplied, but not so 
very often as cynics say. Even the 
honest friendship between him and 
the remarkable woman he calls his 
“ virago ” gives him many a pleasant 
hour. He is still a humorist, though 
cured of his fling at the fair sex. His 
last tolerable hit was at the monosyl- 
labic names of the immortal composers 
his wife had disinterred in his library. 
Says he to parson Denison, hot from 
Oxford, “They remind me of the Ox- 
ford poets in the last century : 

“Alma uovem celebres geuuit Rhedyeina 
poet a s. 

Bubo, Stubb, Grubb, Crabbe, Trappe, 
Brome, Carey, Tickell, Evans.” 

As for Ina Vizard, La Klosking no 
longer, she has stepped into her new 
place with her native dignity, seemli- 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


245 


tress, and composure. At first, a few 
county ladies put their little heads 
together, and prepared to give them- 
selves airs ; but the beauty, dignity, 
and enchanting grace of Mrs. Vizard 
swept this little faction away like small 
dust. Her perfect courtesy, her mild 
but deep dislike of all feminine back- 
biting, her dead silence about the ab- 
sent, except when she can speak kind- 
ly — these rare traits have forced, by 
degrees, the esteem and confidence of 
her own sex. As for the men, they 
accepted her at once with enthusiasm. 
She and Lady Uxmoor are the ac- 
knowledged belles of the county. Lady 
Uxmoor’s face is the most admired ; 
but Mrs. Vizard comes next, and her 
satin shoulders, statuesque bust and 
arms, and exquisite hand, turn the 
scale with some. B ut when she speaks, 
she charms ; and when she sings, all 
competition dies. 

She is faithful to music, and espe- 
cially to sacred music. She is not very 
fond of singing at parties, and some- 
times gives offense by declining. Mu- 
sic sets fools talking, because it ex- 
cites them, and then their folly comes 
out by the road nature has provided. 
But when Mrs. Vizard has to sing in 
one key, and people talk in five other 
keys, that gives this artist such phys- 
ical pain that she often declines, mere- 
ly to escape it. It does not much 
mortify her vanity, she has so little. 

She always sings in church, and 
sings out, too, when she is there ; and 
plays the harmonium. She trains the 
villagers — girls, boys, and adults — 
with untiring good humor and pa- 
tience. 

Among her pupils are two fine 
voices — Tom Wilder, a grand bass, 
and the rosy-cheeked curate, a great- 
er rarity still, a genuine counter-tenor. 

These two can both read music tol- 
erably; but the curate used to sing 
every thing, however full of joy, with 
a pathetic whine, for which Vizard 
chaffed him in vain ; but Mrs. Vizard 
persuaded him out of it, where ar- 
gument and satire failed. 


People come far and near to hear 
the hymns at Islip Church, sung in 
full harmony — trebles, tenors, counter- 
tenor, and bass. 

A trait — she allows nothing to be 
sung in church unrehearsed. The 
rehearsals are on Saturday night, and 
never shirked, such is the respect for 
“Our Dame.” To be sure, “Our 
Dame” fills the stomachs and wets 
the whistles of her faithful choir on 
Saturday nights. 

On Sunday nights there are per- 
formances of sacred music in the 
great dining-hall. But these are 
rather more ambitious than those in 
the village church. The performers 
meet on that happy footing of camara- 
derie the fine arts create, the superi- 
or respect shown to Mrs. Vizard being 
mainly paid to her as the greater mu- 
sician. They attack anthems and serv- 
ices ; and a trio, by the parson, the 
blacksmith, and “Our Dame,” is re- 
ally an extraordinary treat, owing to 
the great beauty of the voices. It is 
also piquant to hear the female singer 
constantly six, and often ten, notes be- 
low the male counter-tenor ; but then 
comes Wilder with his diapason, and 
the harmony is nOhle; the more so 
that Mrs. Vizard rehearses her pupils 
in the swell — a figure too little prac- 
ticed in music, and nowhere carried 
out as she does it. 

One night the organist of Barford 
was there. They sung Kent’s service 
in F, and Mrs. Vizard still admired 
it. She and the parson swelled in the 
duet, “To be a Light to lighten the 
Gentiles,” etc. Organist approved 
the execution, but said the composi- 
tion was a meagre thing, quite out of 
date. “We have much finer things 
now by learned men of the day.” 

“Ah,” said she, “bring me one.” 

So, next Sunday, he brought her a 
learned composition, and played it to 
her, preliminary to their singing it. 
But she declined it on the spot. 
“ What!” said she. “Mr. X., would 
you compare this meaningless stuff' 
with Kent in F ? Why, in Kent, the 


246 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


dominant sentiment of each compo- 
sition is admirably preserved. His 
‘Magnificat’ is lofty jubilation, with 
a free, onward rush. His ‘ Dimittis ’ 
is divine repose after life's fever. 
But this poor pedant’s ‘ Magnificat ’ 
begins with a mere crash, and then 
falls into the pathetic — an excellent 
thing in its place, but not in a song 
of triumph. As to his ‘Dimittis,’ it 
simply defies the words. This is no 
Christian sunset. It is not good old 
Simeon gently declining to his rest, 
content to close those eyes which had 
seen the world’s salvation. This is a 
tempest, and all the windows rattling, 
and the great Napoleon dying, amidst 
the fury of the elements, with ‘ tete 
d’armee !’ on his dying lips, and ‘ bat- 
tle ’ in his expiring soul. No, sir ; if 
the learned Englishmen of this day 
can do nothing nearer the mark than 

DOLEFUL MAGNIFICATS and STORMY 

nunc dimittises, I shall stand faith- 
ful to poor dead Kent, and his fellows 
— they were my solace in sickness and 
sore trouble.” 

In accordance with these views of 
vocal music, and desirous to expand 
its sphere, Mrs. Vizard has just offered 
handsome prizes in the county for the 
best service, in which the dominant 
sentiment of the words shall be as 
well preserved as in Kent’s despised 
service; and another prize to whoev- 
er can set any famous short secular 
poem, or poetical passage (not in bal- 
lad metre), to good and appropriate 
music. 

This has elicited several pieces. 
The composers have tried their hands 
on Dryden’s Ode; on the meeting 
of Hector and Andromache (Pope’s 
“Homer”); on two short poems of 
Tennyson; etc., etc. 

But it is only the beginning of a 
good thing. The pieces are under 
consideration. But Vizard says the 
competitors are triflers. He shall set 
Mr. Arnold’s version of “Hero and 
Leander” to the harp, and sing it him- 
self. This, he intimates, will silence 
competition, and prove an era. I 


think so too, if his music should hap « 
pen to equal the lines in value. But 
I hardly think it will, because the 
said Vizard, though he has taste and 
ear, does not know one note from an- 
other. So I hope “Hero and Lean- 
der ” will fall into abler hands ; and, 
in any case, I trust Mrs. Vizard will 
succeed in her worthy desire to en- 
large, very greatly, the sphere and the 
nobility of vocal music. It is a de- 
sire worthy of this remarkable char- 
acter, of whom I now take my leave 
with regret. 

I must own that regret is caused in 
part by my fear that I may not have 
done her all the justice I desired. 

I have long felt and regretted that 
many able female writers are doing 
much to perpetuate the petty vices of 
a sex, which, after all, is at present 
but half educated, by devoting three 
thick volumes to such empty women 
as Biography, though a lower art 
than Fiction, would not waste three 
pages on. They plead truth and fidel- 
ity to nature. “ We write the aver- 
age woman, for the average woman to 
read,” say they. But they are not con- 
sistent ; for the average woman is un- 
der five feet, and rather ugly. Now 
these paltry women are all beautiful — 
koXcu re peyaXai rt, as Homer hath it. 

Fiction lias just as much right to 
select large female souls as Biogra- 
phy or Painting has ; and to pick out 
a selfish, shallow, illiterate creature, 
with nothing but beauty, and bestow 
three enormous volumes on her, is to 
make a perverse selection, beauty be- 
ing, after all, rarer in women than 
wit, sense, and goodness. It is as 
false and ignoble in art, as to marry a 
pretty face without heart and brains is 
silly in conduct. 

Besides, it gives the female reader 
a low model instead of a high one, 
and so does her a little harm ; where- 
as a writer ought to do good — or try, 
at all events. 

Having all this in my mind, and re- 
membering how many noble women 
have shone like stars in every age and 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


every land, and feeling sure that, as 
civilization advances, such women 
will become far more common, I have 
tried to look ahead and paint La Klos- 
king. 

But such portraiture is difficult. 
It is like writing a statue. 

“ Q,ui mihi non credit faciat licet ipse 
periclum, 

Mox fuerit studiis sequior ille meis.” 

Harrington Vizard, Esq., caught 
Miss Fanny Dover on the top round 
but one of the steps in his library. 
She looked down, pinkish, and said 
she was searching for “Tillotson’s 
Sermons.” 

“What on earth can you want of 
them?” 

‘ ‘ To improve my mind, to be sure,” 
said the minx. 

Vizard said, “Now you stay there, 
miss — don’t you move;” and he sent 
for Ina. She came directly, and he 
said, “Things have come to a ciimax. 
My lady is hunting for ‘Tillotson’s 
Sermons.’ Poor Denison!” (That 
was the rosy curate's name.) 

“Well,” said Fanny, turning red, 
“I told you I should. Why should 
I be good any longer? All the sick 
are cured one way or other, and I am 
myself again.” 

“Humph!” said Vizard. “Un- 
fortunately for your little plans of 
conduct, the heads of this establish- 
ment, here present, have sat in secret 
committee, and your wings are to be 
clipped — by order of council.” 

“ La !” said Fanny, pertly. 

Vizard imposed silence with a lord- 
ly wave. “It is a laughable thing; 
but this divine is in earnest. He has 
revealed his hopes and fears to me.” 

“Then he is a great baby,” said 
Fanny, coming down the steps. “No, 
no ; we are both too poor.” And she 
vented a little sigh. 

“Not you. The vicar has written 
to vacate. Now, I don’t like you 
much, because you never make me 
laugh ; but I’m awfully fond of Deni- 
son ; and, if you will marry my dear 


247 

Denison, you shall have the vicarage ; 
it is a fat one.” 

“Oh, cousin!” 

“And,” said Mrs. Vizard, “ he per- 
mits me to furnish it for you. You 
and I will make it ‘a bijou.’ ” 

Fanny kissed them both, impetu- 
ously : then said she would have a 
little cry. No sooner said than done. 
In due course she was Mrs. Denison, 
and broke a solemn vow that she nev- 
er would teach girls St. Matthew. 

Like coquettes in general, who have 
had their fling at the proper time, she 
makes a pretty good wife ; but she 
has one fault — she is too hard upon 
girls who flirt. 

Mr. Ashmead flourishes. Besides 
his agency, he sometimes treats for a 
new piece, collects a little company, 
and tours the provincial theatres. He 
always plays them a week at Tadding- 
ton, and with perfect gravity loses six 
pounds per night. Then he has a 
“bespeak,” Vizard or Uxmoor turn 
about. There is a line . of carriages; 
the snobs crowd in to see the gentry. 
Vizard pays twenty pounds for his 
box, and takes twenty pounds’ worth 
of tickets, and Joseph is in his glory, 
and stays behind the company to go 
to Islip Church next day, and spend 
a happy night at the Court. After 
that he says he feels good for three 
or four days. 

Mrs. Gale now leases the Hillstoke 
farm of Vizard, and does pretty well. 
She breeds a great many sheep and 
cattle. The high ground and shelter- 
ing woods suit them. She makes a 
little money every year, and gets a 
very good house for nothing. 

Doctress Gale is still all eyes, and 
notices every thing. She studies hard, 
and practices a little. They tried to 
keep her out of the Taddington in- 
firmary ; but she went, almost cry- 
ing, to Vizard, and he exploded with 
wrath. He consulted Lord Uxmoor, 
and between them the infirmary was 
threatened with the withdrawal of 
eighty annual subscriptions if they 
persisted. The managers caved di- 


248 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


rectly, and Doctress Gale is a steady 
visitor. 

A few mothers are coming to their 
senses, and sending for her to their 
un married daughters. This is the 
main source of her professional in- 
come. She has, however, taken one 
enormous fee from a bon vivant, whose 
life she saved by esculents. She told 
him at once he was beyond the reach 
of medicine, and she could do noth- 
ing for him unless he chose to live in 
her house, and eat and drink only 
what she should give him. He had a 
horror of dying, though he had lived 
so well ; so he submitted, and she did 
actually cure that one glutton. But 
she says she will never do it again. 
“After forty years of made dishes 
they ought to be content to die; it 
is bare justice,” quoth Rhoda Gale, 
M.D. 

An apothecary in Barford threat- 
ened to indict this Gallic physician. 
But the other medical men dissuaded 
him, partly from liberality, partly from 
discretion : the fine would have been 
paid by public subscription twenty 
times over, and nothing gained but 
obloquy. The doctress would never 
have yielded. 

She visits, and prescribes, and laughs 
at the law, as love is said to laugh at 
lock-smiths. 

To be sure, in this country, a law 
is no law, when it has no foundation 
injustice, morality, or public policy. 

Happy in her position, and in her 
friends, she now reviews past events 
with the candor of a mind that loves 
truth sincerely. She went into Viz- 
ard’s study one day, folded her arms, 
and delivered herself as follows: “I 
guess there’s something I ought to say 
to you. When I told you about our 
treatment at Edinburgh, the wound 
still bled, and I did not measure my 
Avoids as I ought, professing science. 
Now I feel a call to sav that the Ed- 
inburgh school was, after all, more 
liberal to us than any other in Great 
Britain or Ireland. The others closed 
the door in our faces. This school 


opened it half. At first there was a 
liberal spirit ; but the friends of jus- 
tice got frightened, and the unionists 
stronger. We were overpowered at 
every turn. But what I omitted to 
impress on you is, that when we were 
defeated, it was always by very small 
majorities. That was so even Avith 
the opinions of the judges, which ha\ T e 
been delivered since I told you my 
tale. There were six jurists, and only 
seven pettifoggers. It was so all 
through. Now, for practical pur- 
poses, the act of a majority is the act 
of a body. It must be so. It is the 
Avay of the w'orld : but Avhen an accu- 
rate person comes to describe a busi- 
ness, and deal with the character of 
a whole university, she is not to call 
the larger half the whole, and make 
the matter Avorse than it Avas. That 
is not scientific. Science ch'scrimi- 
nates.” 

I am not sorry the doctress offered 
this little explanation ; it accords with 
her sober mind, and her veneration 
of truth. But I could ha\ r e dispensed 
Avith it for one. In Britain, when w r e 
are hurt, Ave howl ; and the deuce is 
in it if the Aveak may not hoAvl when 
the strong overpower them by the arts 
of the weak. 

Should that part of my tale rouse any 
honest sympathy Avith this English- 
woman Avho can legally prescribe, con- 
sult, and take fees, in France, but not 
in England, though she could eclipse 
at a public examination nine -tenths 
of those Avho can, it may be as Avell 
to inform them that, even Avhile her 
narrative was in the press, our Gov- 
ernment declared it would do some- 
thing for the relief of medical Avomen, 
but would sleep upon it. 

This is, on the Avhole, encouraging. 
But still, Avhere there is no stimulus 
of faction or personal interest to urge 
a measure, but only such “ unconsid- 
ered trifles ” as public justice and pub- 
lic policy, there are always two great 
dangers : 1. That the sleep may know 
no waking; 2. That after too "long a 
sleep the British legislator may jump 


249 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


out of bed all in a hurry, and do the 
work ineffectually ; for nothing leads 
oftener to reckless haste thau long 
delay. 

I hope, then, that a few of ray in- 
fluential readers will be vigilant, and 
challenge a full discussion by the 
whole mind of Parliament, so that no 
temporary, pettifogging half-measure 
may slip into a thin house — like a 
weasel into an empty barn — and so 
obstruct for many years legislation 
upon durable principle. The thing 
lies in a nutshell. The Legislature 
has been entrapped. It never intend- 
ed to outlaw women in the matter. 
The persons who have outlawed them 
are all subjects, and the engines of 
outlawry have been “certificates of 
attendance on lectures,” and “public 
examinations.” By closing the lect- 
ure-room and the examination - hall 
to all women — learned or unlearned — 
a clique has outlawed a population, 
under the letter, not the spirit, of a 
badly written statute. But it is for 
the three estates of the British realm 
to leave off scribbling statutes, and 
learn to write them, and to bridle the 
egotism of cliques, and respect the na- 
tion. The present form of govern- 
ment exists on that understanding, 
and so must all forms of government 
in England. And it is so easy. It 
only wants a little singleness of mind 
and common sense. Years ago certif- 
icates of attendance on various lectures 
were reasonably demanded. They 
were a slight presumptive evidence of 
proficiency, and had a supplementa- 
ry value, because the public examina- 
tions were so loose and inadequate; 
but once establish a stiff, searching, 
sufficient, incorruptible, public exam- 
ination, and then to have passed that 
examination is not presumptive, but 
demonstrative, proof of proficiency, 
and swallows up all minor and mere- 
ly presumptive proofs. 

There is nothing much stupider 
than anachronism. What avail cer- 
tificates of lectures in our day ? either 
the knowledge obtained at the lectures 
11 * 


enables the pupil to pass the great ex- 
amination, or it does not. If it does, 
the certificate is superfluous ; if it 
does not, the certificate is illusory. 

What the British legislator, if for 
once he would rise to be a lawgiver, 
should do, and that quickly, is to 
throw open the medical schools to all 
persons for matriculation. To throw 
open all hospitals and infirmaries to 
matriculated students, without respect 
of sex, as they are already open, by 
shameless partiality and transparent 
greed, to unmatriculated women, pro- 
vided they confine their ambition to 
the most repulsive and unfeminine 
part of medicine, the nursing of both 
sexes, and laying-out of corpses. 

Both the above rights, as independ- 
ent of sex as other natural rights, 
should be expressly protected by 
“mandamus,” and “suit for dam- 
ages.” The lecturers to be compelled 
to lecture to mixed classes, or to give 
separate lectures to matriculated wom- 
en for half fees, whichever those lect- 
urers prefer. Before this clause all 
difficulties would melt, like hail in 
the dog - days. Male modesty is a 
purely imaginary article, set up for a 
trade purpose, and will give way to 
justice the moment it costs the pro- 
prietors fifty per cent. I know my 
own sex from hair to heel, and will 
take my Bible oath of that. 

Of the foreign matriculated student, 
British or European, nothing should 
be demanded but the one thing, 
which matters one straw — viz., infal- 
lible proofs of proficiency in anatomy, 
surgery, medicine, and its collaterals, 
under public examination. This, 
which is the only real safeguard, and 
the only necessary safeguard to the 
public , and the only one the public 
asks, should be placed, in some degree, 
under the sure control of Government 
without respect of cities; and much 
greater vigilance exercised than ever 
has been yet. Why, under the system 
which excludes learned women, male 
dunces have been personated by able 
students, and so diplomas stolen again 


250 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


and again. The student, male or fe- 
male, should have power to compel 
the examiners, by mandamus and oth- 
er stringent remedies, to examine at 
fit times and seasons. In all thepa- 
per-work of these examinations, the 
name, and of course the sex, of the 
student should be concealed from the 
examiners. There is a very simple 
way of doing it. 

Should a law be passed on this 
broad and simple basis, that law will 
stand immortal, with pettifogging acts 
falling all around, according to the 
custom of the country. The larger 
half of the population will no longer 
be unconstitutionally juggled, under 
cover of law, out of their right to take 
their secret ailments to a skilled phy- 
sician of their own sex, and compelled 
to go, blushing, writhing, and, after 
all, concealing and fibbing, to a male 
physician ; the picked few no longer 
robbed of their right to science, repu- 
tation, and Bread. 

The good effect on the whole mind 
of woman would be incalculable. 
Great prizes of study and genius offer- 
ed to the able few have always a sal- 
utary and wonderful operation on the 
many who never gain them ; it would 
be great and glad tidings to our whole 
female youth to say, “ You need not 
be frivolous idlers ; you need not give 
the colts fifty yards’ start for the Der- 
by — I mean, you need not waste 
three hours of the short working-day 
in dressing and undressing, and comb- 
ing your hair. You need not throw 
away the very seed-time of life on mu- 
sic, though you are unmusical to the 
backbone ; nor yet on your three 
“ C’s ” — croquet, crochet, and coquet- 
ry : for Civilization and sound Law 
have opened to you one great, noble, 
and difficult profession with three 
branches, two of which Nature intend- 
ed you for. The path is arduous, but 
flowers grow beside it, and the prize 
is great.” 

I say that this prize, and frequent 
intercourse with those superior women 
who have won it, would leaven the 


whole sex with higher views of life 
than enter their heads at present ; 
would raise their self-respect, and set 
thousands of them to study the great 
and noble things that are in medicine, 
and connected with it, instead of child- 
ish things. 

Is there teally one manly heart that 
would grudge this boon to a sex 
which is the nurse and benefactress 
of every man in his tender and most 
precarious years ? 

Realize the hard condition of wom- 
en. Among barbarians their lot is 
unmixed misery; with us their con- 
dition is better, but not what it ought 
to be, because we are but half civil- 
ized, and so their lot is still very un- 
happy compared with ours. 

And we are so unreasonable. We 
men can not go straight ten yards 
without rewards as well as punish- 
ments. Yet we could govern our 
women by punishments alone. They 
are eternally tempted to folly, yet 
snubbed the moment they would be 
wise. A million shops spread their 
nets, and entice them by their direst 
foible. Their very mothers — for 
want of medical knowledge in the sex 

— clasp the fatal, idiotic corset on 
their growing bodies, though thin as 
a lath. So the girl grows up, crippled 
in the ribs and lungs by her owrt 
mother ; and her life, too, is in stays 

— cabined, cribbed, confined: unless 
she can paint, or act, or write novels, 
every path of honorable ambition is 
closed to her. We treat her as we 
do our private soldiers — the lash, but 
no promotion ; and our private sol- 
diers are the scum of Europe for that 
very reason, and no other. 

I say that to open the study and 
practice of medicine to women-folk, 
under the infallible safeguard of a stiff 
public examination, will be to rise in 
respect for human rights to the level 
of European nations, who do not brag 
about just freedom half as loud as we 
do, and to respect the constitutional 
rights of many million citizens, who 
all pay the taxes like men, and, by the 


A WOMAN-HATER. 


251 


contract with the State implied in that 
payment, buy the clear human right 
they have yet to go down on their 
knees for. But it will also import into 
medical science a new and less theo- 
retical, but cautious, teachable, ob- 
servant kind of intellect ; it will give 
the larger half of the nation an hon- 
orable ambition, and an honorable 
pursuit, toward which their hearts and 


instincts are bent by Nature herself ; 
it will tend to elevate this whole sex, 
and its young children, male as well 
as female, and so will advance the 
civilization of the world, which in 
ages past, in our own day, and in all 
time, hath, and doth, and will, keep 
step exactly with the progress of 
women toward mental equality with 
men. 


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nature, their profusion of picturesque description, and their quiet 
and sustained humor. — Christian Intelligencer, N. Y. 


HARPER & BROTHERS, Publishers 

NEW YORK AND LONDON 

WW*Any of the above works will be sent by mail , postage prepaid ', to 
any part of the United States , Canada , or Mexico , on receipt of the 
price. 


By A. CONAN DOYLE 


The Refugees. A Tale of Two Continents. Illustrated. 
Post 8vo, Cloth, Ornamental, $1 75. 

A masterly work. ... It is not every year, or even every decade, 
which produces one historical novel of such quality. — Spectator , London. 

The White Company. Illustrated. Post 8vo, Cloth, Orna- 
mental, $1 75. 

. . . Dr. Doyle’s stirring romance, the best historical fiction he has 
done, and one of the best novels of its kind to-day. — Hartford Courant. 

Micah Clarke. Illustrated. Post 8vo, Cloth, Ornamental, 
$1 75; also 8vo, Paper, 45 cents. 

A noticeable book, because it carries the reader out of the beaten 
track ; it makes him now and then hold his breath with excitement ; it 
presents a series of vivid pictures and paints two capital portraits ; and it 
leaves upon the mind the impression of well-rounded symmetry and com- 
pleteness. — R. E. Prothero, in The Nineteenth Century . 

Adventures of Sherlock Holmes. Illustrated. Post 8vo, 
Cloth, Ornamental, $1 50. 

Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes. Illustrated. Post 8vo, 
Cloth, Ornamental, $1 50. 

Few writers excel Conan Doyle in this class of literature. His style, 
vigorous, terse, and thoughtful, united to a nice knowledge of the human 
mind, makes every character a profoundly interesting psychological study. 
— Chicago Inter- Ocean. 

The Parasite. A Story. Illustrated. Post 8vo, Cloth, Or- 
namental, $1 00. 

A strange, uncanny, weird story, . . . easily the best of its class. 
The reader is carried away by it, and its climax is a work of literary art. 
— Cincinnati Commercial- Gazette. 

The Great Shadow. Post 8vo, Cloth, Ornamental, $1 00. 

A powerful piece of story-telling. Mr. Doyle has the gift of descrip- 
tion, and he knows how to make fiction seem reality. — Independent , N. Y. 


NEW YORK AND LONDON: 

HARPER & BROTHERS, Publishers 

43T The above works are for sale by all booksellers , or will be sent by the publishers , 
postage prepaid , on receipt of the price. 




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